MEMORIE
WIDENER
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The Yellow Streak
Valentine Williams


23835,190,2170
HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY

SE VERI
HTASH
my
FROM THE BEQUEST OF
ROLAND BURRAGE DIXON
CLASS OF 1897
PROFESSOR OF ANTHROPOLOGY
1916–1935


The Old Corner Book
Stora. Im





THE YELLOW STREAK





THE YELLOW STREAK
BY
VALENTINE WILLIAMS
AUTHOR OF "THE MAN WITH THE CLUB FOOT"

ΤΟΥΤ
BIEN OV
RIEN
Den
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1922


23935.190.2170
HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY
BEQUEST OF
ROLAND BURPAGE DIXON
MAY 19, 1936
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE • MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.


CONTENTS
227
243
XIX. MR. MANDERTON LAYS HIS CARDS ON
THE TABLE
195
XX. THE CODE KING
209
XXI. A WORD WITH MR. JEEKES
XXII. THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW FACE
XXIII. Two's COMPANY ...
255
XXIV. THE METAMORPHOSIS OF MR. SCHULZ 270
XXV. THE READING OF THE RIDDLE
283
XXVI. THE FIGURE IN THE DOORWAY
XXVII. AN INTERRUPTION FROM BEYOND 315
XXVIII. THE DEATH OF HARTLEY PARRISH
299
324


THE YELLOW STREAK





THE YELLOW STREAK
CHAPTER I
THE MASTER OF HARKINGS
Of all the luxuries of which Hartley Parrish's
sudden rise to wealth gave him possession, Bude,
his butler, was the acquisition in which he took
the greatest delight and pride. Bude was a large
and comfortable-looking person, triple-chinned
like an archdeacon, bald-headed except for a re-
spectable and saving edging of dark down, clean-
shaven, benign of countenance, with a bold nose
which to the psychologist bespoke both ambition
and inborn cleverness. He had a thin, tight
mouth which in itself alone was a symbol of
discreet reticence, the hall-mark of the trusted
family retainer.
Bude had spent his life in the service of the
English aristocracy. The Earl of Tipperary,
Major-General Lord Bannister, the Dowager
Marchioness of Wiltshire, and Sir Herbert
Marcobrunner, Bart., had in turn watched his
gradual progress from pantry-boy to butler.


THE YELLOW STREAK
Bude was a man whose maxim had been the
French saying, “Je prends mon bien où je le.
trouve.”
In his thirty years' service he had always sought
to discover and draw from those sources of
knowledge which were at his disposal. From Mac-
Tavish, who had supervised Lord Tipperary's
world-famous gardens, he had learnt a great deal
about flowers, so that the arrangement of the
floral decorations was always one of the features
at Hartley Parrish's soigné dinner-parties.
From Brun, the unsurpassed chef, whom Lord
Bannister had picked up when serving with the
Guards in Egypt, he had gathered sufficient
knowledge of the higher branches of the cuisine
to enable Hartley Parrish to leave the arrange-
ment of the menu in his butler's hands.
Bude would have been the first to admit that,
socially speaking, his present situation was not
the equal of the positions he had held. There
was none of the staid dignity about his present
employer which was inborn in men like Lord Tip-
perary or Lord Bannister, and which Sir Herbert
Marcobrunner, with the easy assimilative faculty
of his race, had very successfully acquired. Be-
low middle height, thick-set and powerfully built,
with a big head, narrow eyes, and a massive chin,
Hartley Parrish, in his absorbed concentration


THE MASTER OF HARKINGS 3
on his business, had no time for the acquisition
or practice of the Eton manner.
It was characteristic of Parrish that, seeing
Bude at a dinner-party at Marcobrunner's, he
should have engaged him on the spot. It took
Bude a week to get over his shock at the manner
in which the offer was made. Parrish had ap-
proached him as he was supervising the de-
parture of the guests. Waving aside the footman
who offered to help him into his overcoat, Par-
rish had asked Bude point-blank what wages he
was getting. Bude mentioned the generous re-
muneration he was receiving from Sir Herbert
Marcobrunner, whereupon Parrish had re-
marked:
“ Come to me and I'll double it. I'll give you a
week to think it over. Let my secretary know!”
After a few discreet enquiries, Bude, faithful
to his maxim, had accepted Parrish's offer.
Marcobrunner was furiously angry, but, being
anxious to interest Parrish in a deal, sagely kept
his feelings to himself. And Bude had never re-
gretted the change. He found Parrish an exact-
ing, but withal a just and a generous master, and
he was not long in realizing that, as long as he
kept Harkings, Parrish's country place where he
spent the greater part of his time, running


THE YELLOW STREAK
smoothly according to Parrish's schedule, he
could count on a life situation.
The polish of manner, the sober dignity of
dress, acquired from years of acute observation
in the service of the nobility, were to be seen as,
at the hour of five, in the twilight of this bleak
autumn afternoon, Bude moved majestically into
the lounge-hall of Harkings and leisurely
pounded the gong for tea.
The muffled notes of the gong swelled out
brazenly through the silent house. They echoed
down the softly carpeted corridors to the library
where the master of the house sat at his desk.
For days he had been immersed in the figures of
the new issue which Hornaway's, the vast engi-
neering business of his creation, was about to put
on the market. They reverberated up the fine
old oak staircase to the luxurious Louis XV bed-
room, where Lady Margaret Trevert lay on her
bed idly smiling through an amusing novel.
They crashed through the thickly padded baize
doors leading to the servants' hall, where, at
sixpence a hundred, Parrish's man, Jay, was
partnering Lady Margaret's maid against Mrs.
Heever, the housekeeper, and Robert, the chauf.
feur, at a friendly game of bridge. And they even
boomed distantly into the far-away billiard-room


THE MASTER OF HARKINGS 5
and broke into the talk which Robin Greve was
having with Mary Trevert.
“Damn!” exclaimed Greve savagely, as the
distant gonging came to his ears.
“It's the gong for tea,” said Mary demurely.
She was sitting on one of the big leather sofas
lining the long room. Robin, as he gazed down at
her from where he stood with his back against
the edge of the billiard-table, thought what an
attractive picture she made in the half-light.
The lamps over the table were lit, but the rest
of the room was almost dark. In that lighting
the thickly waving dark hair brought out the fine
whiteness of the girl's skin. There was love, and
a great desire for love, in her large dark eyes,
but the clear-cut features, the well-shaped chin,
and the firm mouth, the lips a little full, spoke
of ambition and the love of power.
“I've been here three whole days,” said Robin,
“and I've not had two words with you alone,
Mary. And hardly have I got you to myself for a
quiet game of pills when that rotten gong
goes ..."
“I'm sorry you're disappointed at missing
your game,” the girl replied mischievously, “but
I expect you will be able to get a game with
Horace or one of the others after tea . a."
Robin kicked the carpet savagely.


THE YELLOW STREAK
“ You know perfectly well I don't want to play
billiards ..."
He looked up and caught the girl's eye. For a
fraction of a second he saw in it the expression
which every man at least once in his life looks to
see in the eyes of one particular woman. In the
girl's dark blue eyes fringed with long black
lashes he saw the dumb appeal, the mute sur-
render, which, as surely as the white flag on the
battlements in war, is the signal of capitulation
in woman.
But the expression was gone on the instant. It
passed so swiftly that, for a second, Robin, seeing
the gently mocking glance that succeeded it,
wondered whether he had been mistaken.
But he was a man of action - a glance at his
long, well-moulded head, his quick, wide-open
eye, and his square jaw would have told you that
– and he spoke.
“It's no use beating about the bush,” he said.
“ Mary, I've got so fond of you that I'm just
miserable when you're away from me ..."
“Oh, Robin, please ..."
Mary Trevert stood up and remained standing,
her head turned a little away from him, a charm-
ing silhouette in her heather-blue shooting-suit.
The young man took her listless hand.
“My dear," he said, “ you and I have been pals


THE MASTER OF HARKINGS
all our lives. It was only at the front that I be-
gan to realize just how much you meant to me.
And now I know I can't do without you. I've
never met any one who has been to me just what
you are. And, Mary, I must have you as my
wife ..."
The girl remained motionless. She kept her
face averted. The room seemed very still.
“Oh, Robin, please ..." she murmured
again.
Resolutely the young man put an arm about
her and drew her to him. Slowly, reluctantly, she
let him have his way. But she would not look at
him.
“Oh, my dear,” he whispered, kissing her hair,
« don't you care a little?'” ,
She remained silent.
“Won't you look at me, Mary?”
There was a hint of huskiness in his voice. He
raised her face to his.
“I saw in your eyes just now that you cared
for me,” he whispered; "oh, my Mary, say that
you do!”
Then he bent down and kissed her. For a brief
instant their lips met and he felt the caress of the
girl's arm about his neck.
“Oh, Robin!” she said.
That was all.


THE YELLOW STREAK
But then she drew away.
Reluctantly the man let her go. The colour
had faded from his cheeks when she looked at
him again as he stood facing her in the twilight
of the billiard-room.
“Robin, dear,” she said, “I'm going to hurt
you.”
The young man seemed to have had a premoni.
tion of what was coming, for he betrayed no sign
of surprise, but remained motionless, very erect,
very pale.
" Dear," said the girl with a little despairing
shrug, “it's hopeless! We can't afford to
marry!”
“Not yet, I know," said Robin, “but I'm get-
ting on well, Mary, and in another year or
two ..."
The girl looked down at the point of her little
brogue shoe.
“I don't know what you will think of me," she
said, “but I can't accept ... I can't face ...
I ..."
“ You can't face the idea of being the wife of
a man who has his way to make. Is that it?"
The voice was rather stern.
The girl looked up impulsively.
“I can't, Robin. I should never make you
happy. Mother and I are as poor as church-mice.


THE MASTER OF HARKINGS 9
All the money in the family goes to keep Horace
in the Army and pay for my clothes."
She looked disdainfully at her pretty suit.
“ All this,” she went on with a little hopeless
gesture indicating her tailor-made, “is Mother's
investment. No, no, it's true . . . I can tell you
as a friend, Robin, dear, we are living on our
capital until I have caught a rich husband ..."
“Oh, my dear,” said Robin softly, “ don't say.
things like that ..."
The girl laughed a little defiantly.
“But it's true,” she answered. “ The war has
halved Mother's income and there's nothing be-
tween us and bankruptcy but a year or so, .
unless I get married!”
Her voice trembled a little and she turned
away.
“Mary,” said the young man hoarsely, “ for
God's sake, don't do that!”
He moved a step towards her, but she drew
back.
“It's all right,” she said with the tears glisten-
ing wet on her face, and dabbed at her eyes with
her tiny handkerchief, “but, oh, Robin boy, why
couldn't you have held your tongue?”
“I suppose I had no right to speak · .." the
young man began.
The girl sighed.


10
THE YELLOW STREAK
“I oughtn't to say it ... now," she said
slowly, and looked across at Robin with shining
eyes, “but, Robin dear, I'm ... I'm glad you
did!”
She paused a moment as though turning some-
thing over in her mind.
“I've . . . I've got something to tell you,
Robin,” she began. “No, stay where you are!
We must be sensible now.”
She paused and looked at him.
“Robin,” she said slowly, “ I've promised to
marry somebody else ..."
There was a moment's silence.
“Who is it? ” Robin asked in a hard voice.
The girl made no answer.
“ Who is it? Do I know him?”
Still the girl was silent, but she gave a hardly
perceptible nod.
“Not ... ? No, no, Mary, it isn't true? It
can't be true?”
The girl nodded, her eyes to the ground.
“ It's a secret still,” she said. “No one knows
but Mother. Hartley doesn't want it announced
yet! ”
The sound of the Christian name suddenly
seemed to infuriate Greve.
“ By God!” he cried, “it shan't be! You must
be mad, Mary, to think of marrying a man like


THE MASTER OF HARKINGS 11
Hartley Parrish. A fellow who's years older than
you, who thinks of nothing but money, who stood
out of the war and made a fortune while men of
his own age were doing the fighting for him! It's
unthinkable ... it's ... it's damnable to think
of a gross, ill-bred creature like Parrish ..."
“Robin!” the girl cried, " you seem to forget
that we're staying in his house. In spite of all
you say he seems to be good enough for you to
come and stay with ..."
“I only came because you were to be here. You
know that perfectly well. I admit one oughtn't
to blackguard one's host, but, Mary, you must see
that this marriage is absolutely out of the
question!”
The girl began to bridle up.
“ Why?" she asked loftily.
“ Because . .. because Parrish is not the sort
of man who will make you happy ...".
“And why not, may I ask? He's very kind and
very generous, and I believe he likes me ..."
Robin Greve made a gesture of despair.
“My dear girl," he said, trying to control him-
self to speak quietly, “what do you know about
this man? Nothing. But there are beastly stories
circulating about his life ..."
Mary Trevert laughed cynically.
“My dear old Robin,” she said, “ they tell


12
THE YELLOW STREAK
stories about every bachelor. And I hardly think
you are an unbiassed judge ..."
Robin Greve was pacing up and down the
floor.
“ You're crazy, Mary," he said, stopping in
front of her, “ to dream you can ever be happy
with a man like Hartley Parrish. The man's a
ruthless egoist. He thinks of nothing but money
and he's out to buy you just exactly as you ..."
“As I am ready to sell myself!” the girl
echoed. “And I am ready, Robin. It's all very
well for you to stand there and preach ideals at
me, but I'm sick and disgusted at the life we've
been leading for the past three years, hovering.
on the verge of ruin all the time, dunned by
tradesmen and having to borrow even from serv-
ants . . . yes, from old servants of the family
... to pay Mother's bridge debts. Mother's a
good sort. Father spent all her money for her
and she was brought up in exactly the same
helpless way as she brought up me. I can do ab-
solutely nothing except the sort of elementary
nursing which we all learnt in the war, and if I
don't marry well Mother will have to keep a
boarding-house or do something ghastly like that.
I'm not going to pretend that I'm thinking only
of her, because I'm not. I can't face a long en-
gagement with no prospects except castles in


THE MASTER OF HARKINGS 13
Spain. I don't mean to be callous, Robin, but I
expect I am naturally hard. Hartley Parrish is
a good sort. He's very fond of me, and he will
see that Mother lives comfortably for the rest of
her life. I've promised to marry him because I
like him and he's a suitable match. And I don't
see by what right you try and run him down to
me behind his back! If it's jealousy, then it shows
a very petty spirit!”
Robin Greve stepped close up to Mary Trevert.
His eyes were very angry and his jaw was set
very square.
“ If you are determined to sell yourself to the
highest bidder," he said, “I suppose there's no
stopping you. But you're making a mistake. Ir
Parrish were all you claim for him, you might
not repent of his marriage so long as you did not
care for somebody else. But I know you love me,
and it breaks my heart to see you blundering into
everlasting unhappiness ...!
“ At least Hartley will be able to keep me,” the
girl flashed out. Directly she had spoken she re-
gretted her words.
A red flush spread slowly over Robin Greve's
face.
Then he laughed drily.
“ You won't be the first woman he's kept!


14 THE YELLOW STREAK
he retorted, and stamped out of the billiard-
room.
The girl gave a little gasp. Then she red-
dened with anger.
“ How dare he? » she cried, stamping her foot;
“how dare he? »
She sank on the lounge and, burying her face
in her hands, burst into tears.
“Oh, Robin, Robin, dear!” she sobbed — in-
comprehensibly, for she was a woman.


CHAPTER II
AT TWILIGHT
THERE is a delicious snugness, a charming lack of
formality, about the ceremony of afternoon tea
in an English country-house - it is much too in-
definite a rite to dignify it by the name of meal —
which makes it the most pleasant reunion of the
day. For English country-house parties consist,
for the most part, of a succession of meals to
which the guests flock the more congenially as,
in the interval, they have contrived to avoid one
another's companionship.
And so, scarcely had the last reverberation of
Bude's measured gonging died away than the
French window leading from the lounge-hall on
to the terrace was pushed open and two of Hart-
ley Parrish's guests emerged from the falling
darkness without into the pleasant comfort of
the firelit room.
They were an oddly matched pair. The one was
a tubby little man with short bristly grey hair
and a short bristly grey moustache to match. His
stumpy legs looked ridiculous in his baggy golf
knickers of rough tweed, which he wore with
gaiters extending half-way up his short, stout


16 THE YELLOW STREAK
calves. As he came in, he slung off the heavy
tweed shooting-cloak he had been wearing and
placed it with his Homburg hat on a chair.
This was Dr. Romain, whose name thus written
seems indecently naked without the string of
complementary initials indicative of the honours
and degrees which years of bacteriological re-
search had heaped upon him. His companion
was a tall, slim, fair-haired young man, about
as good a specimen of the young Englishman
turned out by the English public school as one
could find. He was extremely good-looking with
a proud eye and finely chiselled features, but the
suggestion of youth in his face and figure was
countered by a certain poise, a kind of latent
seriousness which contrasted strangely with the
general cheery insouciance of his type.
A soldier would have spotted the symptoms at
once. “Five years of war!” would have been his
verdict — that long and strange entry into life
of so many thousands of England's manhood
which impressed the stamp of premature serious-
ness on all those who came through. And Cap-
tain Sir Horace Trevert, Bart., D.S.O., had gone
from his famous school straight into a famous
regiment, had won his decoration before he was
twenty-one, and been twice wounded into the
bargain.


AT TWILIGHT
17
“Where's everybody?” queried the doctor,
rubbing his hands at the blazing log-fire.
“ Robin and Mary went off to play billiards,"
said the young man, “and I left old Parrish after
lunch settling down for an afternoon's work in
the library ..."
He crossed the room to the fire and stood with
his back to the flame.
“What a worker that man is!” ejaculated the
doctor. “He had one of his secretaries down this
morning with a car full of portfolios, blue-prints,
specifications, and God knows what else. Parrish
polished the whole lot off and packed the fellow
back to London before mid-day. Some of Horn-
away's people who were waiting went in next,
and he was through with them by lunch-time!”
Trevert wagged his head in admiration.
“ And he told me he wanted to have a quiet
week-end!” he said. “That's why he has no
secretary living in the house.”
“A quiet week-end!” repeated Romain drily.
“ Ye gods!”
“He's a marvel for work,” said the young
man.
“He certainly is,” replied the doctor. “He's
done wonders with Hornaway's. When he took
the place over at the beginning of the war, they
were telling me, it was a little potty concern


18
THE YELLOW STREAK
making toy air guns or lead soldiers or some-
thing of the sort. And they never stop coining
money now, it seems. Parrish must be worth
millions ..."
“Lucky devil!” said Trevert genially.
“Ah!” observed the doctor sententiously,
“but he's had to work for it, mark you! He's had
the most extraordinary life, they tell me. He was
at one period of his career a bartender on the
Rand, a man was saying at the club the other
day. But most of his life he's lived in Canada, I
gather. He was telling us the other evening, be-
fore you and Mary came down, that he was once
a brakeman on the Canadian Pacific Railway.
He said he invested all his savings in books on
engineering and read them in his brakeman's
van on his trips across the Dominion. Ah! he's
a fine fellow!"
He lowered his voice discreetly.
“ And a devilish good match, eh, Horace?"
The young man flushed slightly.
“ Yes,” he said unwillingly.
“A dam' good match for somebody," urged the
doctor with a malicious twinkle in his eye.
“Here, Doc,” said Horace, suddenly turning
on him, “ you stick to your bugs and germs.
What do you know about matchmaking, any.
way?”


AT TWILIGHT
19
Dr. Romain chuckled.
“We bacteriologists are trained observers.
One learns a lot watching the life and habits of
the bacillus, Horace, my boy. And between our-
selves, Parrish would be a lucky fellow if ..."
Trevert turned to him. His face was quite
serious, and there was a little touch of hauteur
in his voice. He was the 17th Baronet.
“My dear Doc,” he said, “ aren't you going a
bit fast? Parrish is a very good chap, but one
knows nothing about him ..."
Sagely the doctor nodded his grizzled head.
« That's true,” he agreed. “He appears to have
no relatives and nobody over here seems to have
heard of him before the war. A man was saying
at the Athenæum the other day ..."
Trevert touched his elbow. Bude had appeared,
portly, imperturbable, bearing a silver tray set
out with the appliances for tea.
“Bude,” cried Trevert, “don't tell me there
are no tea-cakes again!”
“ On the contrairey, sir,” answered the butler
in the richly sonorous voice pitched a little be-
low the normal register which he employed
abovestairs, “ the cook has had her attention
drawn to it. There are tea-cakes, sir!”.
With a certain dramatic effect — for Bude was
a trifle theatrical in everything he did — he


20
THE YELLOW STREAK
.
whipped the cover off a dish and displayed a
smoking pile of deliciously browned scones.
“Bude," said Trevert, “ when I'm a Field Mar-
shal, I'll see you get the O.B.E. for this!”
The butler smiled a nicely regulated three-by-
one smile, a little deprecatory as was his wont.
Then, like a tank taking a corner, he wheeled
majestically and turned to cross the lounge. To
reach the green baize door leading to the
servants' quarters he had to cross the outer hall
from which led corridors on the right and left.
That on the right led to the billiard-room; that
on the left to the big drawing-room with the
library beyond.
As Bude reached the great screen of tooled
Spanish leather which separated a corner of the
lounge from the outer hall, Robin Greve came
hastily through the glass door of the corridor
leading from the billiard-room. The butler with
a pleasant smile drew back a little to allow the
young man to pass, thinking he was going into
the lounge for tea.
“ Tea is ...” he began, but abruptly ended the
sentence on catching sight of the young man's
face. For Robin, habitually so self-possessed,
looked positively haggard. His face was set and
there was a weary look in his eyes. The young


AT TWILIGHT
21
man appeared so utterly different from his
wonted self that Bude fairly stared at him.
But Robin, without paying the least attention
either to the butler or to the sound of voices in
the lounge, strode across the outer hall and dis-
appeared through the glass door of the corridor
leading to the great drawing-room and the
library.
Bude stood an instant gazing after him in per-
plexity, then moved across the ball to the
servants' quarters.
In the meantime in the lounge the little doctor
snapped the case of his watch and opined that he
wanted his tea.
“Where on earth has everybody got to?
What's become of Lady Margaret? I haven't
seen her since lunch ..."
That lady answered his question by appearing
in person.
Lady Margaret was tall and hard and glitter-
ing. Like so many English women of good family,
she was so saturated with the traditions of her
class that her manner was almost indistinguish-
able from that of a man. Well-mannered, broad-
minded, wholly cynical, and absolutely fearless,
she went through life exactly as though she were
following a path carefully taped out for her by
a suitably instructed Providence. Somewhere


22
THE YELLOW STREAK
beneath the mask of smiling indifference she
presented so bravely to a difficult world, she had
a heart, but so carefully did she hide it that
Horace had only discovered it on a certain grey
November morning when he had started out for
the first time on active service. For ever after-
wards a certain weighing-machine at Waterloo
Station, by which he had had a startling vision
of his mother standing with heaving bosom and
tear-stained face, possessed in his mind the at-
tributes of some secret and sacred shrine.
But now she was cool and well-gowned and
self-contained as ever.
“What a perfectly dreadful day!” she ex-
claimed in her pleasant, well-bred voice.
“ Horace, you must positively go and see Henry
What's-his-name in the Foreign Office and get
me a passport for Cannes. The weather in Eng-
land in the winter is incredibly exaggerated!”
“At least,” said the doctor, rubbing his back
as he warmed himself at the fire, "we have fuel
in England. Give me England, climate and all,
but don't take away my fire. The sun doesn't
shine on the Riviera at night, you know!”.
Lady Margaret busied herself at the tea-table
with its fine Queen Anne silver and dainty yellow
cups. It was the custom at Harkings to serve tea
in the winter without other illumination than the


AT TWILIGHT
23
light of the great log-fire that spat and leaped in
the open hearth. Beyond the semi-circle of ruddy
light the great lounge was all in darkness, and
beyond that again was the absolute stillness of
the English country on a winter's evening.
And so with a gentle clatter of teacups and the
accompaniment of pleasantly modulated voices
they sat and chatted — Lady Margaret, who was
always surprising in what she said, the doetor
who was incredibly opinionated, and young
Trevert, who like all of the younger generation
was daringly flippant. He was airing his views
on what he called “ Boche music " when he broke
off and cried:
“Hullo, here's Mary! Mary, you owe me half
a crown. Bude has come up to scratch and there
are tea-cakes after ... but, I say, what on
earth's the matter?”
The girl had come into the room and was stand-
ing in the centre of the lounge in the ruddy glow
of the fire. Her face was deathly pale and she
was shuddering violently. She held her little
cambric handkerchief crushed up into a ball to
her lips. Her eyes were fixed, almost glazed, like
one who walks in a trance.
She stood like that for an instant surveying
the group - Lady Margaret, a silver tea-pot in
one hand, looking at her with uplifted brows.
Horace, who in his amazement had taken a step


24 THE YELLOW STREAK
forward, and the doctor at his side scrutinizing
her beneath his shaggy eyebrows.
“My dear Mary” – it was Lady Margaret's
smooth and pleasant voice which broke the
silence - " whatever is the matter? Have you
seen a ghost!”
The girl swayed a little and opened her lips
as if to speak. A log, crashing from the fire into
the grate, fell upon the silence of the darkening
room. It seemed to break the spell.
“Hartley!”.
The name came hoarsely from the girl. Every-
body, except Lady Margaret, sprang to his feet
It was the doctor who spoke first.
“Miss Mary," he said, "you seem frightened,
what ..."
His voice was very soothing.
Mary Trevert made a vague gesture towards
the shadows about the staircase.
“ There ... in the library ... he's got the
door locked ... there was a shot ..."
Then she suddenly screamed aloud.
In a stride both the doctor and her brother
were by her side. But she motioned them away.
“ I'm frightened about Hartley,” she said in a
low voice,“ please go at once and see what ...
that shot ... and he doesn't answer!”
“ Come on, Doctor!”
Horace Trevert was halfway to the big screen


AT TWILIGHT
25
separating the lounge from the outer hall. As he
passed the bell, he pressed it.
“ Send Bude to us, Mother, when he comes,
please!” he called as he and the doctor hurried
away.
Lady Margaret had risen and stood, one arm
about her daughter, on the Persian rug spread
out before the cheerful fire. So the women stood
in the firelight in Hartley Parrish's house, sur-
rounded by all the treasures which his wealth
had bought, and listened to the footsteps clatter
ing away through the silence,


CHAPTER III
A DISCOVERY
HARKINGS was not a large house. Some three
hundred years ago it had been a farm, but in the
intervening years successive owners had so al-
tered it by pulling down and building on, that,
when it passed into the possession of Hartley
Parrish, little else than the open fireplace in the
lounge remained to tell of the original farm. It
was a queer, rambling house of only two stories
whose elongated shape was accentuated by the
additional wing which Hartley Parrish had built
on.
For the decoration of his country-house, Par-
rish had placed himself unreservedly in the
hands of the firm entrusted with the work. Their
architect was given carte blanche to produce a
house of character out of the rather dingy, out-
of-date country villa which Harkings was when
Hartley Parrish, attracted by the view from the
gardens, first discovered it.
The architect had gone to his work with a zest.
He had ripped up walls and ceilings and torn
down irrational matchwood partitions, discover-
ing some fine old oak wainscot and the black-


A DISCOVERY
27
ened roof-beams of the original farmstead. In
the upshot he transformed Harkings into a very
fair semblance of a late Jacobean house, fitted
with every modern convenience and extremely
comfortable. Furnished throughout with genuine
“period” furniture, with fine dark oak panelling
and parquet floors, it was altogether picturesque.
Neither within nor without, it is true, would a
connoisseur have been able to give it a date.
But that did not worry Hartley Parrish. He
loved a bargain and he had bought the house
cheap. It was situated in beautiful country and
was within easy reach by car of his town-house
in St. James's Square where he lived for the
greater part of the week. Last but not least
Harkings was the casket enshrining a treasure,
the realization of a lifelong wish. This was the
library, Parrish's own room, designed by himself
and furnished to his own individual taste.
It stood apart from the rest of the house at
the end of the wing which Parrish had con-
structed. The wing consisted of a single ground
floor and contained the drawing-room — which
was scarcely ever used, as both Parrish and his
guests preferred the more congenial surround-
ings of the lounge - and the library. A long cor-
ridor panelled in oak led off the hall to the new
wing. On to this corridor both the drawing-room


28
THE YELLOW STREAK
and the library gave. Halfway down the corridor
a small passage ran off. It separated the draw-
ing-room from the library and ended in a door
leading into the gardens at the back of the house.
It was to the new wing that Horace Trevert
and Dr. Romain now hastened. They hurried
across the hall, where the big lamp of dulled glass
threw a soft yellow light, and entered the
corridor through the heavy oak door which shut
it off from the hall. The corridor was wrapt in
silence. Halfway down, where the small passage
ran to the garden door, the electric light was
burning.
Horace Trevert ran down the corridor ahead
of the doctor and was the first to reach the
library door. He knocked sharply, then turned
the handle. The door was locked.
“Hartley!” he cried and rapped again. “ Ha-
a-artley! Open the door! It's me, Horace!”
Again he knocked and rattled the handle. Not
a sound came from the locked room. There was
an instant's silence. Horace and the doctor ex-
changed an interrogatory look.
From behind the closed door came the steady
ticking of a clock. The silence was so absolute
that both men heard it.
Then the door at the end of the corridor was
flung open and Bude appeared. He was running


A DISCOVERY
29
at a quick ambling trot, his heavy tread shaking
the passage.
“Oh, sir,” he cried, “ whatever is it? What has
happened? ”
Horace spoke quickly, incisively.
“ Something's happened to Mr. Parrish, Bude,"
he said. “ The door's locked and he doesn't an-
swer. We'll have to break the door down."
Bude shook his head.
“It's solid oak, sir,” he began.
Then he raised his hand.
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said, as though an
idea had struck him. “If we were to go out by the
garden door here, we might get in through the
window. We could break the glass if needs be!”
“That's it!” exclaimed Horace. “Come on,
Doctor!”
He dashed down the corridor towards the little
passage. The doctor laid a hand on Bude's arm.
“One of us had better stay here,” he said with
a meaning glance at the closed door.
The butler raised an affrighted face to his.
“Go with Sir Horace, Bude,” said the doctor.
“ I'll stay!”
Outside in the gardens of Harkings it was a
raw, damp evening, pitch-black now, with little
gasts of wind which shook the naked bushes of
the rosery. The garden door led by a couple of


30 THE YELLOW STREAK
shallow steps on to a gravel path which ran all
along the back of the house. The path extended
right up to the wall of the house. On the other
side it flanked the rosery.
The glass door was banging to and fro in the
night wind as Bude, his coat-collar turned up,
hurried out into the darkness. The library, which
formed the corner of the new wing, had two win.
dows, the one immediately above the gravel path
looking out over the rosery, the other round the
corner of the house giving on the same path, be-
yond which ran a high hedge of clipped box sur-
rounding the so-called Pleasure Ground, a plot of
smooth grass with a sundial in the centre.
A glow of light came from the library window,
and in its radiance Bude saw silhouetted the tall,
well-knit figure of young Trevert. As the butler
came up, the boy raised something in his hand
and there was a crash of broken glass.
The curtains were drawn, but with the break-
ing of the window they began to flap about. With
the iron grating he had picked up from the drain
below the window young Trevert smashed the rest
of the glass away, then thrust an arm through the
empty window-frame, fumbling for the window-
catch.
“ The catch is not fastened,” he whispered, and
with a resolute thrust he pushed the window up.


A DISCOVERY
31
The curtains leapt up wildly, revealing a glimpse
of the pleasant, book-lined room. Both men from
the darkness without saw Parrish's desk littered
with his papers and his habitual chair beyond it,
pushed back empty.
Trevert turned an instant, a hand on the win-
dow-sill.
“ Bude,” he said, “ there's no one there!”
“Best look and see, sir,” replied the butler, his
coat-tails flapping in the wind.
Trevert hoisted himself easily on to the win-
dow-sill, knelt there for an instant, then thrust
his legs over the sill and dropped into the room.
As he did so he stumbled, cried aloud.
Then the heavy grey curtains were flung back
and the butler saw the boy's face, rather white, at
the open window.
“My God,” he said slowly, “he's dead!”
A moment later Dr. Romain, waiting in the
corridor, heard the key turn in the lock of the
library door. The door was flung open. Horace
Trevert stood there, silhouetted in a dull glow of
light from the room. He was pointing to the open
window, beneath which Hartley Parrish lay on
his back motionless.


CHAPTER IV
BETWEEN THE DESK AND THE WINDOW
HARTLEY PARRISH’s library was a splendid
room, square in shape, lofty and well propor-
tioned. It was lined with books arranged in
shelves of dark brown oak running round the four
walls, but sunk level with them and reaching up
to a broad band of perfectly plain white plaster.
work.
It was a cheerful, comfortable, eminently mod.
ern room, half library, half office. The oak was
solid, but uncompromisingly new. The great
leather armchairs were designed on modern lines
- for comfort rather than for appearance.
There were no pictures; but vases of chrysanthe-
mums stood here and there about the room. A
dictaphone in a case was in a corner, but beside
it was a little table on which were set out some
rare bits of old Chelsea. There was also a gramo-
phone, but it was enclosed in a superb case of
genuine old black-and-gold lacquer. The very
books in their shelves carried on this contrast of
business with recreation. For while one set of
shelves contained row upon row of technical
works, company reports, and all manner of busi.


BETWEEN DESK AND WINDOW
33
ness reference books bound in leather, on another
were to be found the vellum-bound volumes of the
Kelmscott Press.
A sober note of grey or mole colour was the
colour scheme of the room. The heavy pile carpet
which stretched right up to the walls was of this
quiet neutral shade: so were the easy-chairs, and
the colour of the heavy curtains, which hung in
front of the two high windows, was in harmony
with the restful decorative scheme of the room.
The massive oaken door stood opposite the win-
dow overlooking the rosery—the window through
which Horace Trevert had entered. Parrish's
desk was in front of this window, between it and
the door in consequence. By the other window,
which, as has been stated, looked out on the
clipped hedge surrounding the Pleasure Ground,
was the little table with the Chelsea china, the
dictaphone, and one of the easy-chairs. The cen.
tre of the room was clear so that nothing lay be-
tween the door and the carved mahogany chair
at the desk. Here, as they all knew, Parrish was
accustomed to sit when working, his back to the
door, his face to the window overlooking the
rosery.
The desk stood about ten feet from the window.
On it was a large brass lamp which cast a bril.
liant circle of light upon the broad flat top of the


34
THE YELLOW STREAK
desk with its orderly array of letter-trays, its
handsome silver-edged blotter and silver and tor-
toise-shell writing appurtenances. By the light of
this lamp Dr. Romain, looking from the doorway,
saw that Hartley Parrish's chair was vacant,
pushed back a little way from the desk. The rest
of the room was wrapt in unrevealing half-light.
“ He's there by the window!”
Horace was whispering to the doctor. Romain
strode over to the desk and picked up the lamp.
As he did so, his eyes fell upon the pale face of
Hartley Parrish. He lay on his back in the space
between the desk and the window. His head was
flung back, his eyes, bluish-grey, — the narrow,
rather expressionless eyes of the successful busi-
ness man, — were wide open and fixed in a sight-
less stare, his rather full mouth, with its clean-
shaven lips, was rigid and stern. With the broad
forehead, the prominent brows, the bold, aggres-
sive nose, and the square bony jaw, it was a
fighter's face, a fine face save for the evil promise
of that sensuous mouth. So thought the doctor
with the swift psychological process of his trade.
From the face his gaze travelled to the body.
And then Romain could not repress an involun.
tary start, albeit he saw what he had half ex-
pected to see. The fleshy right hand of Hartley
Parrish grasped convulsively an automatic pis-


BETWEEN DESK AND WINDOW 35
tol. His clutching index finger was crooked about
the trigger and the barrel was pressed into the
yielding pile of the carpet. His other hand with
clawing fingers was flung out away from the body
on the other side. One leg was stretched out to
its fullest extent and the foot just touched the
hem of the grey window curtains. The other leg
was slightly drawn up.
The doctor raised the lamp from the desk and,
dropping on one knee, placed it on the ground
beside the body. With gentle fingers he manipu-
lated the eyes, opened the blue serge coat and
waistcoat which Parrish was wearing. As he un-
buttoned the waistcoat, he laid bare a dark red
stain on the breast of the fine silk shirt. He
opened shirt and under-vest, bent an ear to the
still form, and then, with a little helpless gesture,
rose to his feet.
“Dead?” queried Trevert.
Romain nodded shortly.
“Shot through the heart!” he said.
“He looked so . . . so limp," the boy said,
shrinking back a little, “ I thought he was dead.
But I never thought old Hartley would have done
a thing like that ..."
The doctor pursed up his lips as if to speak.
But he remained silent for a moment. Then he
said:


36
THE YELLOW STREAK
“Horace, the police must be informed. We can
do that on the telephone. This room must be left
just as it is until they come. I can do nothing
more for poor Hartley. And we shall have to tell
the others. I'd better do that myself. I wonder
where Greve is? I haven't seen him all the after-
noon. As a barrister he should be able to advise
us about - er, the technicalities: the police and
all that ..."
Rapid footsteps reverberated down the corri-
dor. Robin Greve appeared at the door. The fat
and frightened face of Bude appeared over his
shoulder.
“Good God, Doctor!” he cried, “what's this
Bude tells me?"
The doctor cleared his throat.
“ Our poor friend is dead, Greve,” he said.
“ But how? How?”
Greve stood opposite the doctor in the centre
of the library. He had switched on the light at
the door as he had come in, and the room was
flooded with soft light thrown by concealed lamps
set around the cornice of the ceiling.
“Look!” responded the doctor by way of an.
swer and stepped aside to let the young man come
up to the desk. “He has a pistol in his hand!”
Robin Greve took a step forward and stopped


BETWEEN DESK AND WINDOW 37
dead. He gazed for an instant without speaking
on the dead face of his host and rival.
“ Suicide!”
It was an affirmation rather than a question,
and the little doctor took it up. He was not a
young man and the shock and the excitement
were beginning to tell on his nerves.
“I am not a police surgeon," he said with some
asperity; “ in fact, I may say I have not seen a
dead body since my hospital days. I ...1...
know nothing about these things. This is a mat-
ter for the police. They must be summoned at
once. Where's Bude?”
Robin Greve turned quickly.
“ Get on to the police station at Stevenish at
once, Bude,” he ordered. “Do you know the In-
spector? ”
“Yessir,” the butler answered in a hollow
voice. His hands were trembling violently, and he
seemed to control himself with difficulty. “Mr.
Humphries, sir!"
“Well, ring him up and tell him that Mr. Par-
rish . . . Hullo, what do all these people want? ”
There was a commotion at the door. Frightened
faces were framed in the doorway. Outside there
was the sound of a woman whimpering. A tall,
dark young man in a tail coat came in quickly.
He stopped short when he saw the solemn faces


38
THE YELLOW STREAK
of the group at the desk. It was Parrish's man,
Jay. He stepped forward to the desk and in a
frightened sort of way peered at the body as it
lay on the floor.
“Oh, sir," he said breathlessly, addressing
Greve, “ what ever has happened to Mr. Parrish ?
It can't be true ..."
Greve put his hand on the young man's
shoulder.
“ I'm sorry to say it is true, Jay,” he answered.
“He was very good to us all,” the valet replied
in a broken voice. He remained by the desk star-
ing at the body in a dazed fashion.
• Who is that crying outside?” Greve de-
manded. “This is no place for women ..."
“It's Mrs. Heever, the housekeeper,” Bude an-
swered.
“Well, she must go back to her room. Send all
those servants away. Jay, will you see to it? And
take care that Lady Margaret and Miss Trevert
don't come in here, either."
“ Sir Horace is with them, sir, in the lounge,"
said Jay and went out.
“I'll go to them. I think I'd better,” exclaimed
the doctor. “I shall be in the lounge when they
want me. A dreadful affair! Dreadful!”
The little doctor bustled out, leaving Greve and
the butler alone in the room with the mortal re-


BETWEEN DESK AND WINDOW 39
te!"
mains of Hartley Parrish lying where he had fal-
len on the soft grey carpet.
“Now, Bude,” said Greve incisively, “get on to
the police at once. You'd better telephone from
the servant's hall. I'll have a look round here in
the meantime!”
Bude stood for an instant irresolute. He
glanced shrewdly at the young man.
“Go on,” said Robin quickly; "what are you
waiting for, man? There's no time to lose.”
Slowly the butler turned and tiptoed away, his
ungainly body swaying about as he stole across
the heavy pile carpet. He went out of the room,
closing the door softly behind him. He left Greve
sunk in a reverie at the desk, gazing with unsee-
ing eyes upon the dead face of the master of
Harkings.
That sprawling corpse, the startled realization
of death stamped for ever in the wide, staring
eyes, was indeed a subject for meditation. There,
in the midst of all the evidences of Hartley Par-
rish's meteoric rise to affluence and power, Greve
pondered for an instant on the strange pranks
which Fate plays us poor mortals.
Parrish had risen, as Greve and all the world
knew, from the bottom rung of the ladder. He
had had a bitter fight for existence, had made his
money, as Greve had heard, with a blind and


40
THE YELLOW STREAK
ruthless determination which spoke of the stern
struggle of other days. And Robin, who, too, had
had his own way to make in the world, knew how
the memory of earlier struggles went to sweeten
the flavour of ultimate success.
Yet here was Hartley Parrish, with his vast
financial undertakings, his soaring political am-
bitions, his social aims which, Robin realized bit-
terly, had more than a little to do with his project
for marrying Mary Trevert, stricken down sud-
denly, without warning, in the very heyday of
success.
“Why should he have done it?" he whispered
to himself, “why, my God, why?”
But the mask-like face at his feet, as he bent
to scan it once more, gave no answer to the riddle.
Determination, ambition, was portrayed on the
keen, eager face even in death.
With a little hopeless gesture the young bar-
rister glanced round the room. His eye fell upon
the desk. He saw a neat array of letter-trays,
costly silver and tortoise-shell writing appoint-
ments, a couple of heavy gold fountain pens, and
an orderly collection of pencils. Lying flat on the
great silver-edged blotter was a long brown enve-
lope which had been opened. Propped up against
the large crystal ink-well was a letter addressed


BETWEEN DESK AND WINDOW 41
simply “Miss Mary Trevert” in Hartley Par-
rish's big, vigorous, and sprawling handwriting.
The letter to Mary Trevert, Robin did not touch.
But he picked up the long brown envelope. On
the back it bore a printed seal. The envelope con.
tained a document and a letter. At the sight of
it the young man started. It was Hartley Par-
rish's will. The letter was merely a covering note
from Mr. Bardy, of the firm of Jerringham, Bardy
and Company, a well-known firm of solicitors,
dated the previous evening. Robin replaced letter
and document in their envelope without reading
them.
“So that's it!” he murmured to himself. “ Sui-
cide? But why? "
All the letter-trays save one were empty. In
this was a little heap of papers and letters. Robin
glanced through them. There were two or three
prospectuses, a notice of a golf match, a couple
of notes from West End tradesmen enclosing re-
ceipts and an acknowledgement from the bank.
There was only one personal letter - a business
communication from a Rotterdam firm. Robin
glanced at the letter. It was typewritten on paper
of a dark slatey-blue shade. It was headed,
“ELIAS VAN DER SPYCK & Co., GENERAL IM-
PORTERS, ROTTERDAM," and dealt with steel ship-
ments.


42 THE YELLOW STREAK
Robin dropped the letter back into the tray and
turned to survey the room. It was in perfect
order. Except for the still form lying on the floor
and the broken pane of glass in the window, there
was nothing to tell of the tragedy which had
been enacted there that afternoon. There were no
papers to hint at a crisis save the prosaic-looking
envelope containing the will, and Parrish's note
for Mary. The waste-paper basket, a large and
business-like affair in white wicker, had been
cleared.
Robin walked across to the fireplace. The flames
leapt eagerly about a great oak log which hissed
fitfully on top of the glowing coals contained in
the big iron fire-basket. The grate was bare and
tidy. As the young man looked at the fire, a little
whirl of blue smoke whisked out of the wide fire-
place and eddied into the room. Robin sniffed.
The room smelt smoky. Now he remembered he
had noticed it as he came in.
He stood an instant gazing thoughtfully at the
blazing and leaping fire. He threw a quick glance
at the window where the curtains tossed fitfully
in the breeze coming through the broken pane.
Suddenly he stepped quickly across the room and,
lifting the reading-lamp from the table, bore it
over to the window which he scrutinized narrowly
by its light. Then he dropped on one knee beside


BETWEEN DESK AND WINDOW 43
the dead body, placing the lamp on the floor be-
side him.
He lifted the dead man's left hand and narrow-
ly examined the nails. Without touching the
right hand which clasped the revolver, he studied
its nails too. He rose and took the gold-mounted
reading-glass from the desk and scrutinized the
nails of both hands through the glass.
Then he rose to his feet again and, having re-
placed lamp and reading-glass on the desk, stood
there thoughtfully, his brown hands clasped be-
fore him. His eyes wandered from the desk to the
window and from the window to the corpse. Then
he noticed on the carpet between the dead body
and the desk a little ball of slatey-blue paper. He
bent down and picked it up. He had begun to un-
roll it when the library door was flung open,
Robin thrust the scrap of paper in his pocket and
turned to face the door,


CHAPTER V
IN WHICH BUDE LOOKS AT ROBIN GREVE
THE library door opened. A large, square-built,
florid man in the braided uniform of a police in-
spector stood on the threshold of the room. Beside
him was Bude who, with an air of dignity and
respectful mourning suitably blended, waved him
into the room.
“ The — ahem! — body is in here, Mr. Humph-
ries, sir!”
Inspector Humphries stepped quickly into the
room. A little countryfied in appearance and ac-
cent, he had the careful politeness, the measured
restraint, and the shrewd eye of the typical police
officer. In thirty years' service he had risen from
village constable to be Inspector of county police.
Slow to anger, rather stolid, and with an excellent
heart, he had a vein of shrewd common sense not
uncommonly found in that fast disappearing
species, the English peasant.
He nodded shortly to Greve, and with a tread
that shook the room strode across to where Hart-
ley Parrish was lying dead. In the meantime a
harassed-looking man with a short grey beard,
wearing a shabby frock coat, had slipped into the


BUDE LOOKS AT ROBIN GREVE 45
room behind the Inspector. He approached Greve.
“Dr. Romain?” he queried, peering through
his gold spectacles, “the butler said ..."
“No, my name is Greve," answered Robin. “I
am staying in the house. This is Dr. Romain."
He motioned to the door. Dr. Romain came
bustling into the room.
“Glad to see you here so promptly, Inspector,"
he said. “A shocking business, very. Is this the
doctor? I am Dr. Romain ..."
Dr. Redstone bowed with alacrity
“A great privilege, sir,” he said staidly. “I
have followed your work ..."
But the other did not let him finish.
“ Shot through the heart ... instantaneous
death . . . severe hæmorrhage ... the pistol is
there ... in his hand. A man with everything
he wanted in the world ... I can't understand
it. 'Pon my soul, I can't!”
The Inspector, who had been kneeling by the
corpse, motioned with his head to the village doc-
tor. Dr. Redstone went to him and began a cur-
sory examination of the body. The Inspector rose.
“I understand from the butler, gentlemen," he
said, “ that it was Miss Trevert, a lady staying in
the house, who heard the shot fired. I should like
to see her, please. And you, sir, are you a relation
of ..."


46
THE YELLOW STREAK
Greve, thus addressed, hastily replied.
“Only a friend, Inspector. I am staying in the
house. I am a barrister. Perhaps I may be able to
assist you ..."
Humphries shot a slow, shrewd glance at him
from beneath his shaggy blond eyebrows.
“ Thank you, sir, much obliged, I'm sure. Now"
-- he thrust a hand into his tunic and produced a
large leather-bound notebook “do you know
anything as would throw a light on this busi-
ness?"
Greve shook his head.
“ He seemed perfectly cheerful at lunch. He
left the dining-room directly after he had taken
his coffee.”
“Where did he go?”
“He came here to work. He told us at lunch
that he was going to shut himself up in the li-
brary for the whole afternoon as he had a lot of
work to get through.”
The Inspector made a note or two in his book.
Then he paused thoughtfully tapping the end of
his pencil against his teeth.
“It was Miss Trevert, you say, who found the
body?”
“No," Greve replied. “Her brother, Sir Horace
Trevert. It was Miss Trevert who heard the shot
fired."


BUDE LOOKS AT ROBIN GREVE 47
« The door was locked, I think?”
“ On the inside. But here is Sir Horace Trevert.
He will tell you how he got through the window
and discovered the body."
Horace Trevert gave a brief account of his en-
try into the library. Again the Inspector scrib-
bled in his notebook.
“One or two more questions, gentlemen,
please,” he said, “and then I should wish to see
Miss Trevert. Firstly, who saw Mr. Hartley Par-
rish last: and at what time?”
Horace Trevert looked at Greve.
“ It would be when he left us after lunch,
wouldn't it?” he said.
“ Certainly, certainly,” Dr. Romain broke in.
“He left us all together in the dining-room, you,
Horace and Robin and Lady Margaret and
Mary ... Miss Trevert and her mother, you
know," he added by way of explanation to the
Inspector.
“ And he went straight to the library?”
“ Straight away, Mr. Humphries, sir," broke
in Bude. “Mr. Parrish crossed me in the hall and
gave me particular instructions that he was not
to be disturbed.”
“ That was at what time? ".
“ About two-thirty, sir."


48
THE YELLOW STREAK
« Then you were the last person to see him be-
fore ..."
“ Why, no ... that is, unless ..."
The butler hesitated, casting a quick glance
round his audience.
“What do you mean? ” rapped out the Inspec.
tor, looking up from his notebook. “ Did anybody
else see Mr. Parrish in spite of his orders ? "
Bude was silent. He was looking at Greve.
“ Come on," said Humphries sternly. “ You
heard my question? What makes you think any-
body else had access to Mr. Parrish before the
shot was heard?”
Bude made a little resigned gesture of the
hands.
“Well, sir, I thought i ri I made sure that
Mr. Greve ..."
There was a moment's tense silence.
“ Well?” snapped Humphries.
“I was going to say I made certain that Mr.
Greve was going to Mr. Parrish in the library to
tell him tea was ready. Mr. Greve passed me in
the hall and went down the library corridor just
after I had served the tea.”
All eyes turned to Robin.
“ It's perfectly true,” he said. “I went out into
the gardens for a mouthful of fresh air just be-
fore tea. I left the house by the side door off the


BUDE LOOKS AT ROBIN GREVE 49
corridor here. I didn't go to the library, though.
It is an understood thing in this house that no
one ever disturbs Mr. Parrish when he ..."
He broke off sharply.
“My God, Mary," he cried, “you mustn't come
in here!”
All turned round at his loud exclamation.
Mary Trevert stood in the doorway. Dr. Romain
darted forward.
“My dear,” he said soothingly,"you mustn't be
here ..."
Passively she let him lead her into the corridor,
The Inspector continued his examination.
“At what time did you come along this corri-
dor, sir?” he asked Robin.
“It was not long after the tea gong went,” an.
swered Robin, “ about ten minutes past five, I
should say ..."
“And you heard nothing?"
Robin shook his head.
“ Absolutely nothing," he replied. “The cor-
ridor was perfectly quiet. I stepped out into the
grounds, went for a turn round the house, but it
was raining, so I came in almost at once."
“At what time was that?”
" When I came in . .. oh, about two or three
minutes later, say about a quarter past five."
Humphries turned to Horace Trevert.
Y


50
THE YELLOW STREAK
“What time was it when Miss Trevert heard
the shot?”
Horace puckered up his brow.
“ Well," he said, “I don't quite know. We were
having tea. It wasn't much after five - I should
say about a quarter past."
“ Then the shot that Miss Trevert heard would
have been fired just about the time that you, sir,”
he turned to Robin, “ were coming in from your
stroll.”
“ Somewhere about that time, I should say!”
Robin answered rather thoughtfully.
“ Did you hear it? ” queried the Inspector.
“No,” said Robin.
“But surely you must have been at or near
the side door at the time as you were coming
in ..."
“I came in by the front door,” said Robin,“ on
the other side of the house ..."
Very carefully the Inspector closed his note.
book, thrust the pencil back in its place along the
back, fastened the elastic about the book, and
turned to Horace Trevert.
“And now, sir, if I might speak to Miss Trevert
alone for a minute ..."
“I say, though,” expostulated Horace, “my
sister's awfully upset, you know. Is it absolutely
necessary?"


BUDE LOOKS AT ROBIN GREVE 51
" Aye, sir, it is!” said the Inspector. “But
there's no need for me to see her in here. Perhaps
in some other room ..."
“ The drawing-room is next to this,” the butler
put in; “ they'd be nice and quiet in there, Sir
Horace.”
The Inspector acquiesced. Dr. Redstone drew
him aside for a whispered colloquy.
The Inspeetor came back to Robin and Horace,
“ The doctor would like to have the body taken
upstairs to Mr. Parrish's room," he said. “He
wishes to make a more detailed examination if
Dr. Romain would help him. If one of you gentle-
men could give orders about this . . . I have two
officers outside who would lend a hand. And this
room must then be shut and locked. Sergeant
Harris!” he called.
« Sir!”
A stout sergeant appeared at the library door.
“As soon as the body has been removed, you
will lock the room and bring the key to me. And
you will return here and see that no one attempts
to get into the room. Understand?"
“ Yessir!”
“ Inspector!”
Robin Greve called Inspector Humphries as the
latter was preparing to follow Bude to the draw-
ing-room.


THE YELLOW STREAK
“Mr. Parrish seems to have written a note for
Miss Trevert,” he said, pointing at the desk.
“ And in that envelope you will find Mr. Parrish's
will. I discovered it there on the desk just before
you arrived!”
Again the Inspector shot one of his swift
glances at the young man. He went over to the
desk, shook the document and letter from their
envelope, glanced at them, and replaced them.
“I don't rightly know that this concerns me,
gentlemen," he said slowly. "I think I'll just take
charge of it. And I'll give Miss Trevert her let-
ter."
Taking the two envelopes, he tramped heavily
out of the room.
Then in a little while Bude and Jay and two bu-
colic-looking policemen came to the library to
move the body of the master of Harkings. Robin
stood by and watched the little procession pass
slowly with silent feet across the soft pile carpet
and out into the corridor. But his thoughts were
not with Parrish. He was haunted by the look
which Mary Trevert had given him as she had
stood for an instant at the library door, a look of
fear, of suspicion. And it made his heart ache.


CHAPTER VI
THE LETTER
THE great drawing-room of Harkings was ablaze
with light. The cluster of lights in the heavy crys-
tal chandelier and the green-shaded electric
lamps in their gilt sconces on the plain white-
panelled walls coldly lit up the formal, little-used
room with its gilt furniture, painted piano, and
huge marble fireplace.
This glittering Louis Seize environment seemed
altogether too much for the homely Inspector.
Whilst waiting for Mary Trevert to come to him,
he tried several attitudes in turn. The empty
hearth frightened him away from the mantel-
piece, the fragile appearance of a gilt settee de-
cided him against risking his sixteen stone weight
on its silken cushions, and the vastness of the
room overawed him when he took up his position
in the centre of the Aubusson carpet. Finally he
selected an ornate chair, rather more solid-look-
ing than the rest, which he drew up to a small
table on the far side of the room. There he sat
down, his large red hands spread out upon his
knees in an attitude of singular embarrassment.
- But Mary Trevert set him quickly at his ease
when presently she came to him. She was pale,


54
THE YELLOW STREAK
but quite self-possessed. Indeed, the effort she
had made to regain her self-control was so marked
that it would have scarcely escaped the attention
of the Inspector, even if he had not had a brief
vision of her as she had stood for that instant at
the library door, pale, distraught, and trembling.
He was astonished to find her cool, collected, al-
most business-like in the way she sat down, mo-
tioned him to his seat, and expressed her readi-
ness to tell him all she knew.
The phrases he had been laboriously prepar-
ing—“This has been a bad shock for you,
ma'am”; “ You will forgive me, I'm sure, ma'am,
for calling upon you at a moment such as
this ” — died away on his lips as Mary Trevert
said:
“Ask me any questions you wish, Inspector. I
will tell you everything I can.”
« That's very good of you, ma'am, I'm sure,"
answered the Inspector, unstrapping his note-
book, “and I'll try and not detain you long.
Now, then, tell me what you know of this sad
affair ..."
Mary Trevert plucked an instant nervously at
her little cambric handerchief in her lap. Then
she said:
“I went to the library from the billiard.
room ..."


THE LETTER
55
“A moment,” interposed the Inspector. “What
time was that?”
“A little after five. The tea gong had gone
some time. I was going to the library to tell Mr.
Parrish that tea was ready ..."
Mr. Humphries made a note. He nodded to
show he was listening.
“I crossed the hall and went down the library
corridor. I knocked on the library door. There
was no reply. Then I heard a shot and a sort of
thud.”
Despite her effort to remain calm, the girl's
voice shook a little. She made a little helpless
gesture of her hands. A diamond ring she was
wearing on her finger caught the light and blazed
for an instant.
“ Then I got frightened. I ran back along the
corridor to the lounge where the others were and
told them.”
“ When you knocked at the door, you say there
was no reply. I suppose, now, you tried the
handle first.”
“Oh, yes ..."
“ Then Mr. Parrish would have heard the two
sounds? The turning of the handle and then the
knocking on the door? That's so, isn't it?"
“ Yes, I suppose so ..."
“Yet you say there was no reply?”


56 . THE YELLOW STREAK
“ No. None at all.”
The Inspector jotted a word or two in his note-
book as it lay open flat upon the table.
“ The shot, then, was fired immediately after
you had knocked? Not while you were knock-
ing?"
“No. I knocked and waited, expecting Mr. Par-
rish to answer. Instead of him answering, there
came this shot ..."
" I see. And after the shot was fired there was
a crash?”
“A sort of thud - like something heavy fall.
ing down.”
“ And you heard no groan or cry? "
The girl knit her brows for a moment.
“I ...1... was frightened by the shot. I
ö..1... don't seem able to remember what
happened afterwards. Let me think . . . let me
think ..."
“There, there,” said the Inspector paternally,
“ don't upset yourself like this. Just try and
think what happened after you heard the shot
fired ..."
Mary Trevert shuddered, one slim white hand
pressed against her cheek.
“I do remember now," she said, “there was a
cry. It was more like a sharp exclamation . . ."
“ And then you heard this crash ? "


THE LETTER
“ Yes ..."
The girl had somewhat regained her self-pos-
session. She dabbed her eyes with her handker-
chief quickly as though ashamed of her weakness.
“Now," said Humphries, clearing his throat,
as though to indicate that the conversation had
changed, “ you and Lady Margaret Trevert knew
Mr. Parrish pretty well, I believe, Miss Trevert.
Have you any idea why he should have done this
thing?"
Mary Trevert shook her dark head rather
wearily.
“It is inconceivable to me. i. to all of us,"
she answered.
“Do you happen to know whether Mr. Parrish
had any business worries?"
“He always had a great deal of business on
hand and he has had a great deal to do lately over
some big deal."
“What was it, do you know?"
“He was raising fresh capital for Horna-
way's — that is the big engineering firm he con-
trols ..."
“Do you know if he was pleased with the way
things were shaping?"
“Oh, yes. He told me last night that every-
thing would be finished this week. He seemed
quite satisfied.”


58 THE YELLOW STREAK
The Inspector paused to make a note.
Then he thrust a hand into the side-pocket of
his tunic and produced Hartley Parrish's letter.
“ This,” he said, eyeing the girl as he handed
her the letter, “ may throw some light on the af-
fair! "
Open-eyed, a little surprised, she took the plain
white envelope from his hand and gazed an in-
stant without speaking, on the bold sprawling ad-
dress
“ Miss Mary Trevert."
« Open it, please," said the Inspector gently.
The girl tore open the envelope. Humphries
saw her eyes fill, watched the emotion grip her
and shake her in her self-control so that she could
not speak when, her reading done, she gave him
back the letter..
Without asking her permission, he took the
sheet of fine, expensive paper with its neat en-
graved heading and postal directions, and read
Hartley Parrish's last message.
My dear [it ran], I signed my will at Bardy's office
yesterday, and he sent it back to me to-day. Just
this line to let you know you are properly provided
for should anything happen to me. I wanted to fix
things so that you, and Lady Margaret would not
have to worry any more. I just had to write, I guess
you understand why.
H.


60 THE YELLOW STREAK
spector dropped his eyes and scribbled in his
book.
“ Was his health good?"
“He smoked far too much,” the girl said, " and
it made him rather nervy. But otherwise he
never had a day's illness in his life.”
Humphries ran his eye over the notes he had
made.
“ There is just one more question I should like
to ask you, Miss Trevert,” he said, “rather a per-
sonal question.”
Mary Trevert's hands twisted the cambric
handkerchief into a little ball and slowly un-
wound it again. But her face remained quite
calm.
“ About your engagement to Mr. Parrish ...
when did it take place?”
“Some days ago. It has not yet been an.
nounced.”
The Inspector coughed.
“I was only wondering whether, perhaps, Mr.
Parrish was not quite ... whether he was, may-
be, a little disturbed in his mind about the en-
gagement..."
The girl hesitated. Then she said firmly:
“ Mr. Parrish was perfectly happy about it. He
was looking forward to our being married in the
spring."


CHAPTER VII
VOICES IN THE LIBRARY
The swift tragedy of the winter afternoon had
convulsed the well-organized repose of Hartley
Parrish's household. Nowhere had his master
grasp of detail been seen to better advantage
than in the management of his country home.
Overwhelmed with work though he constantly
was, accustomed to carry his business and often
part of his business staff to Harkings with him
for the week-ends, there was never the least con-
fusion about the house. The methodical calm of
Harkings was that of a convent.
Hartley Parrish was wont to say that he paid
his butler and housekeeper well to save himself
from worry. It was rather to ensure his orders
being punctiliously and promptly carried out.
His was the mind behind the method which en-
sured that meals were punctually served and
trains at Stevenish Station never missed.
But it was into a house in turmoil that Mary
Trevert stepped when she left the drawing-room
and passed along the corridor to go to her room.
Doors slammed and there was the heavy thud of
footsteps on the floor above. The glass door lead-


VOICES IN THE LIBRARY 63
ing into the gardens was open, as Mary passed it,
swinging in the gusts of cold rain. In the gardens
without there was a confused murmur of voices
and the flash of lanterns.
In the hall a knot of servants were gossiping in
frightened whispers with a couple of large, rather
bovine country constables who, bareheaded, with-
out their helmets, which they held under their
arms, looked curiously undressed.
The whispers died away as Mary crossed the
hall. All eyes followed her with interest as she
went. It was as though an echo of her talk with
the Inspector had by some occult means already
spread through the little household. Through the
half-open green baize door leading to the sery.
ants' quarters some unseen person was bawling
down the telephone in a heated controversy with
the exchange about a long-distance call to Lon-
don. And but an hour since, the girl reflected
sadly, as she mounted the oaken staircase, the
house had been wrapt in its wonted evening si-
lence in response to that firm and dominating
personality who had passed out in the gloom of
the winter twilight.
When, about six months before, Mary and her
mother had begun to be regular visitors at Hark-
ings, Hartley Parrish had insisted on giving
Mary a boudoir to herself. This, in response to


64
THE YELLOW STREAK
a chance remark of Mary's in admiration of a
Chinese room she had seen at a friend's house,
Parrish had had decorated in the Chinese style
with black walls and black-and-gold lacquer fur-
niture. The room had been transformed from a
rather prosaic morning-room with old oak and
chintz in the space of three days as a surprise
for Mary. She remembered now how Parrish had
left her to make the discovery of the change for
herself. She loved colour and line, and the con-
trast between this quaint and delightful room
with her rather shabby bedroom in her mother's
small house in Brompton had made this surprise
one of the most delightful she had ever experi.
enced.
She rang the bell and sat down listlessly in a
charmingly lacquered Louis Seize armchair in
front of the log-fire blazing brightly in the fire-
place. She was conscious that a great disaster
had overtaken her, but only dimly conscious. For
more poignantly than this dull sense of tragedy
she was aware of a great aching at her heart, and
her thoughts, after hovering over the events of
the afternoon, settled down upon her talk that
afternoon ... already how far off it seemed
v.. with Robin Greve in the library.
Robin had always been her hero. She could
see him now in the glow of the fire as he had been


VOICES IN THE LIBRARY 65
when in the holidays he had come and snatched
her away from a home already drab and difficult
for a matinée and an orgy of cream cakes at Gun-
ter's afterwards. He was then a long, slim, hand-
some boy of irrepressible spirits and impulsive
generosity which usually left him, after the first
few days of his holidays, in a state of lamentable
impecuniosity. All their lives, it seemed to her,
they had been friends, but with no stronger feel-
ing between them until Robin, having joined the
Army on the outbreak of war, had come to say
good-bye on being ordered to France.
But by that time money troubles at home with
which, as it seemed to her, she had been sur-
rounded all her life, had grown so pressing that,
apart from Lady Margaret's reiterated counsels,
she herself had come to recognize that a suitable
marriage was the only way out of their ever-
increasing embarrassment.
She and Robin, she recalled with a feeling of
relief, had never discussed the matter. He, too,
had understood and had sailed for France with-
out seeking to take advantage of the circum-
stance.
Outside in the black night a car throbbed. Foot-
steps crunched the gravel beneath her window.
The sounds brought her back to the present with
a sudden pang. She began to think of Hartley


66
THE YELLOW STREAK
Parrish. All her life she had been so very poor
that, until she had met this big, vigorous, intense-
ly vital man, she had never known what a lavish
command of money meant. Hartley Parrish did
things in a big way. If he wanted a thing he
bought it, as he had bought Bude, as he had
bought a car he had seen standing outside a Pall
Mall club and admired. He had rooted the owner
out, bade him name his price, and had paid it,
there and then, by cheque, and driven Mary off
to a lawn tennis tournament at Queen's, hugely
delighted by her bewilderment.
She did not love him. She could never have
learnt to love him. There was a gleeful zest in
his enjoyment of his money, an ostentatious par-
ade of his riches which repelled her. And there
was a look in his face, those narrow eyes, that
hard mouth, which revealed to her womanly in-
tuition a ruthlessness which she guessed he kept
for his business. But she liked him, especially
his reverent and chivalrous devotion to her, and
the thought that his dominating and vital per-
sonality was extinguished for ever made her con-
scious of a great void in her life.
And now she was rich. Hartley Parrish's idea
of “proper provision” for her, she knew, meant
wealth for her beyond anything she had ever
dreamed. The perpetual debasing struggle with


VOICES IN THE LIBRARY
67
is
poverty which she and her mother had carried on
for years was a thing of the past. Money meant
freedom, freedom to live . . . and to love.
She stretched her hands out to the blaze. Was
she free to love? What had driven Hartley Par-
rish to suicide? Or who? She went over in her
mind her interview with Robin Greve in the bil.
liard-room. He had spoken of other women in
connection with Hartley Parrish. Had he used
that knowledge to threaten his rival? What had
Robin done after he had left her that afternoon
with his final taunt?
She felt the blood rise to her cheeks as she
thought of it. Mary Trevert had all the pride of
her ancient race. The recollection of that taunt
galled her. Her loyalty to the man from whom
she had received nothing but chivalry, whose for-
tune was to banish a hideous nightmare from her
life, rose up in arms. What had Robin done? She
must know the truth ...
A tap came at the door. Bude appeared.
“I think you rang, Miss,” he said in his quiet,
deep voice. “I was with the Inspector, Miss,
and I couldn't come before. Was there any.
thing? ..."
The girl turned in her chair.
“Come in and shut the door, Bude," she said.
“I want to speak to you."


68
THE YELLOW STREAK
The butler obeyed and came over to where she
sat. He seemed ill at ease and rather apprehen-
sive.
“Bude," said the girl, “I want you to tell me
why you were certain that Mr. Greve was going
to Mr. Parrish in the library when he passed you
in the hall this afternoon!”
The butler smoothed his hands down his trous-
ers in embarrassment.
“I thought he ... Mr. Greve . i . would be
sure to be going to fetch Mr. Parrish in to tea,
Miss ..." he replied, eyeing the girl anxiously.
Mary Trevert continued gazing into the fire.
“ You know it is a rule in this house, Bude," she
said, “ that Mr. Parrish is never disturbed in the
library ..."
The butler changed his position uneasily.
“ Yes, Miss, but I thought ..."
Slowly Mary Trevert turned and looked at the
man.
“Bude,"— her voice was very calm,—“I want
you to tell me the truth. You know that Mr.
Greve went in to Mr. Parrish ..."
Bude looked uneasily about him.
“Oh, Miss," he answered, almost in a whisper,
“whatever are you saying?”
“I want your answer, Bude,” the girl said
coldly.


VOICES IN THE LIBRARY
69
Bude did not speak. He rubbed his hands up
and down his trousers in desperation.
“I wish to know why Mr. Parrish did this
thing, Bude. I mean to know. And I think you
are keeping something back!”
The challenge resounded clearly, firmly.
“ Miss Trevert, ma'am,” the butler said in a
low voice, “I wouldn't take it upon me to say
anything as would get anybody in this house into
trouble ..."
“ You saw Mr. Greve go into Mr. Parrish ? "
The butler raised his hands in a quick gesture
of denial.
“ God forbid, Miss!” he ejaculated in horror.
“What, then, do you know that is likely to get
anybody here into trouble?”
The butler hesitated an instant. Then he spoke.
“ That Inspector Humphries has been asking
me questions, Miss, in a nasty, suspicious sort o'
way. I told him, what I told him already, that
just after I'd done serving the tea Mr. Greve
crossed the hall and went down the library cor-
ridor ..."
“ You didn't tell him everything, Bude?"
The butler took a step nearer.
“Oh, Miss," he said, lowering his voice, “if
you'll pardon my frankness, but I know as how
you and Mr. Greve are old friends, and I wouldn't


70
THE YELLOW STREAK
take it upon me to tell the police anything as
might ..."
Mary Trevert stood up and faced the man.
“Bude," said she, “ Mr. Parrish was your mas-
ter, a kind and generous master as he was kind
and generous to every one in this house. We
must clear up the mystery of his ... of his
death. Neither you nor I nor Mr. Greve nor any-
body must stand in the way. Now, tell me the
truth!”
She dropped back into her chair. She gave the
order imperiously like the mistress of the house.
The butler, trained through life to receive orders,
surrendered.
“There's nothing much to tell, Miss. When
Mr. Humphries asked me if I were the last per-
son to see Mr. Parrish alive, I made sure that Mr.
Greve would say he had been in to tell him tea
was ready. But Mr. Greve, who heard the Inspec.
tor's question and my answer, said nothing. So I
thought, maybe, he had his reasons and I did
not feel exactly as how it was my place ..."
Mary Trevert tapped with her foot impatiently.
“ But what grounds have you for saying that
Mr. Greve went in to Mr. Parrish? Mr. Greve de.
clared quite positively that he went out by the
side door and did not go into the library at all.”


VOICES IN THE LIBRARY 71
“ But, Miss, I heard him speaking to Mr. Par.
rish ..."
The girl turned round and the man saw fear in
her wide-open eyes.
The butler put his hand on the back of her
chair and leaned forward.
“Better leave things where they are, Miss," he
said in a low voice. “Mr. Parrish, I dare say, had
his reasons. He's gone to his last account now.
What does it matter why he done it ..."
The man was agitated, and in his emotion his
carefully studied English was forsaking him.
But the girl broke in incisively.
“ Please explain what you mean!” she com-
manded.
“Why, Miss," replied the butler, “we know
that Mr. Greve had no call to like Mr. Parrish
seeing how things were between you and the mas-
ter ..."
“ You mean the servants know that Mr. Par-
rish and I were engaged ..."
Bude made a deprecatory gesture
“Know, Miss? I wouldn't go so far as to say
know. But there has been some talk in the serv-
ants' 'all, Miss. You know what young female
servants are, Miss ..."
“And you think that Mr. Greve went to Mr.
Parrish to talk about ... me?"


VOICES IN THE LIBRARY 73
a turn, he did, when I saw his face under the hall
lamp ..."
“ Did you stay there so i and listen?”
Bude drew himself up.
“ That is not my 'abit, Miss, not 'ere nor in
hany of the 'ouses where I 'ave seen service ..."
The butler broke off. The h’s were too much for
him in his indignation.
“I didn't mean to suggest anything under-
hand,” the girl said quickly. “I mean, did you
hear any more?”
“No, Miss. I emptied the letter-box and took
the letters to the servants' hall."
“But,” said Mary in a puzzled way," why do
you say it was Mr. Greve if you didn't hear his
voice?"
Bude spread out his hands in bewilderment.
“Who else should it have been, Miss? Sir Hor-
ace and the doctor were in the lounge at tea. Jay
and Robert were in the servants' hall. It could
have been nobody else ..."
The girl's head sank slowly on her breast. She
was silent. The butler shifted his position.
“Was there anything more, Miss ?” he asked
after a little while.
“ There is nothing further, thank you, Bude,"
replied Mary. “About Mr. Greve, I am sure there
must be some mistake. He cannot have under-


CHAPTER VIII
ROBIN GOES TO MARY
THE house telephone, standing on the long and
gracefully designed desk with its elaborately lac.
quered top, whirred. Mary started from her rev.
erie in her chair by the fire. By the clock on the
mantelshelf she saw that it was a quarter past
eight. She remembered that once her mother had
knocked at her door and bidden her come down to
dinner. She had refused the invitation, declining
to unlock the door.
She lifted the receiver.
“ That you, Mary?”
Robin was speaking.
“May I come up and see you? Or would you
rather be left alone?”
His firm, pleasant voice greatly comforted her.
Only then she realized how greatly she craved
sympathy. But the recollection of Bude's story
suddenly interposed itself like a barrier between
them.
“Yes, come up,” she said, “I want to speak to
you!”
Her voice was dispirited.
“I don't want to see him," she told herself as


76
THE YELLOW STREAK
she replaced the receiver, got up, and unlocked
the door, “but I must know!”.
A gentle tap came at the door. Robin came in
quickly and crossed to where she stood by the fire.
“My dear!” he said and put out his two hands.
Her hands were behind her back, the fingers
nervously intertwining. She kept them there and
made no sign that she had observed his gesture.
He looked at her in surprise.
“ This has been terrible for you, Mary,” he said.
“I wish to God I could make you realize how very,
very much I feel for you in what you must be go-
ing through ..."
The phrase was formal and he brought it out
irresolutely, chilled as he was by her reception.
She was looking at him dispassionately, her fore-
head a little puckered, her eyes a trifle hard.
“Won't you sit down,” she said. “ There is
something I wanted to say!”
He was looking at her now in a puzzled fashion.
With rather feigned deliberation he chose a chair
and sat down facing the fire. A lamp on the man-
telpiece — the only light in the room — threw
its rays on his face. His chin was set rather more
squarely than his wont and his eyes were shining.
“ Mary," — he leant forward towards her, —
“please forget what I said this afternoon. It was


ROBIN GOES TO MARY 77
beastly of me, but I hardly knew what I was do-
ing ..."
She made a little gesture as if to wave his apol-
ogy aside. Then, with her hands clasped in front
of her, scanning the nails, she asked, almost cas-
ually:
“What did you say to Hartley Parrish in the
library this afternoon?”
Robin stared at her in amazement.
“But I was not in the library!” he answered.
The girl dropped her hands sharply to her, side.
“ Don't quibble with me, Robin," she said.
“What did you say to Hartley Parrish after you
left me this afternoon in the billiard-room?"
He was still staring at her, but now there was a
deep furrow between his brows. He was breath-
ing rather hard.
“I did not speak to Parrish at all after I left
you.”
His answer was curt and incisive.
“Do you mean to tell me," Mary said, “ that,
after you left me and went down the corridor to-
wards the library, you neither went in to Hartley
nor spoke to him!”
“ I do!”
“ Then how do you account for the fact that,
almost immediately after you had crossed Bude


78 THE YELLOW STREAK
was a
in the hall, he heard the sound of voices in the
library?"
Robin Greve stood up abruptly.
“Bude, you say, makes this statement?"
“ Certainly!”
“ To whom, may I ask?”
He spoke sharply and there was a challenging
ring in his voice. It nettled the girl.
“ Only to me," she said quickly, and added:
“ You needn't think he has told the police!”
Very deliberately Robin plucked his handker-
chief from his sleeve, wiped his lips, and replaced
it. The girl saw that his hands were trembling.
“Why do you say that to me?” he demanded
rather fiercely.
Mary Trevert shrugged her shoulders.
“ This afternoon," she said, “when I told you
of my engagement to Hartley, you began by abus-
ing him to me, you rushed from the room making
straight for the library where we all know that
Hartley was working, and a few minutes after
Bude hears voices raised in anger proceeding
from there. The next thing we know is that Hart-
ley has ..."
She broke off and looked away.
“ Mary,”— Robin's voice was grave, and he
had mastered all signs of irritation, — “you and
I have known one another all our lives. You


ROBIN GOES TO MARY
79
ought to know me well enough by now to under.
stand that I don't tell you lies. When I say I
haven't seen or spoken to Hartley Parrish since
lunch this afternoon, that is the truth!”
“How can it be the truth ? " the girl insisted.
“Horace and Dr. Romain were both in the
lounge-hall, Bude was in the hall, the other men-
servants were in the servants' hall. You are the
only man in the house not accounted for, and a
minute before Bude heard these voices you go
down the corridor towards the library. I can un-
derstand you wanting to keep it from the police,
but why do you want to deceive meg”
“Mary," answered the young man sternly, “I
know you're upset, but that's no justification for
persisting in this stupid charge against me. I tell
you I never saw Parrish or spoke to him, either,
between lunch and when I saw him lying dead in
the library. I am not going to repeat the denial.
But you may as well understand now that I am
not in the habit of allowing my friends to doubt
my word!”
Mary flamed up at his tone.
“ If you are my friend," she cried, "why can't
you trust me? Why should I find this out from
Bude? Why should I be humiliated by hearing
from the butler that he kept this evidence from
the police in order to please me because you and


80
THE YELLOW STREAK
D
C
I are friends? I am only trying to help you, to
shield you ..."
“That will do, Mary,” he said. “No, you must
hear what I have to say. If you insist on disbe-
lieving me, you must. But I don't want you to
help me. I don't want you to shield me. I shall
make it my business to see that Bude's evidence
is brought before the detective inspector from
Scotland Yard who is being brought down here
to handle the case ..."
“A detective from Scotland Yard?" the girl
repeated.
“ Yes, a detective. Humphries is puzzled by
several points about this case and has asked for
assistance from London. He is right. Neither
the circumstances of Parrish's death nor the mo.
tive of his act are clear. Bude's evidence is suf-
ficient proof that somebody did gain access to the
library this afternoon. In that case ..."
“ Yes ..."
“ In that case,” said Greve slowly, “it may not
be suicide ..."
Mary put one hand suddenly to her face as wo-
men do when they are frightened. She shrank
back.
“ You mean ..."
He nodded.
« Murder!”


ROBIN GOES TO MARY 81
The girl gave a little gasp. Then she stretched
out her hand and touched his arm.
“But, Robin,” she spoke in quick gasps, -
“ you can't give the police this evidence of Bude's.
Don't you see it incriminates you? Don't you
realize that every scrap of evidence points to you
as being the man that visited Mr. Parrish in the
library this afternoon? You're a lawyer, Robin.
You understand these things. Don't you see what
I mean?"
He nodded curtly.
“Perfectly," he replied coldly.
“ Bude will do what I tell him," the girl hur-
ried on. “There is no need for the police to
know ..."
“ On the contrary,” said the other imperturb-
ably, “it is essential they should be told at once.”
The girl grasped the lapels of his coat in her
two hands. Her breath came quickly and she
trembled all over.
“Are you mad, Robin?" she cried. “Who
could have wanted to kill poor Hartley? Why
should you put these ideas into the heads of the
police? Bude may have imagined everything.
Now, you'll be sensible, promise me ..."
Very gently he detached the two slim hands
that held his coat. His mouth was set in a firm
line.


82 THE YELLOW STREAK
“We are going to sift this thing to the bottom,
Mary," he said, “no matter what are the conse-
quences. You owe it to Parrish and you owe it
to me. ."
The telephone trilled suddenly.
Robin picked up the receiver.
“ Yes, Bude,” he said.
There was a moment's silence in the room
broken as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed
nine times. Then Robin said into the telephone:
“Right! Tell him I'll be down immediately!”
He put down the receiver and turned to Mary.
“A detective inspector has arrived from Lon.
don. He is asking to see me. I must go down-
stairs."
Mary, her elbows on the mantelpiece, was star-
ing into the fire. At the sound of his voice she
swung round quickly.
“ Robin!” she cried.
But she spoke too late.
Robin Greve had left the room.


84
THE YELLOW STREAK
rather thin black hair, and coarse features. He
looked a full-blooded, plethoric person with red-
dish-blue veins on his florid face, and a heavy jowl
which over-feeding, Robin surmised, had made
fullish. He was very neatly dressed in his black
overcoat with velvet collar carefully brushed, his
natty black tie with its pearl pin, and well-pol-
ished boots. His black bowler hat, with a pair
of heavy dogskin gloves, neatly folded, lay on the
table.
« This Mr. Greve?”
Bude and Jay fell back as Robin joined the
group. The detective bent his gaze on the young
barrister as he put his question, and Robin for the
first time noticed his eyes. Keen and clear, they
were ill-suited, he thought, to the rather gross
features of the man. By right he should have had
either the small and roguish or the pale and ex-
pressionless eyes which are habitually found in
individuals of the sanguine temperament.
The detective had a trick of dropping his eyes
to his boots. When he raised them, the effect was
to alter his whole expression. His eyes, well-open,
keenly observant, in perpetual motion, lent an air
of alertness, of shrewdness, to his heavy, florid
countenance.
“That is my name,” said Robin, answering his


MR. MANDERTON
question. “I am a barrister. I have met some of
your people at the Yard, but I don't think ..."
“Detective-Inspector Manderton," interjected
the big man, and paused as though to say, “Let
that sink in!”
Robin knew him well by repute. His qualities
were those of the bull-dog, slow-moving, obsti-
nately brave, and desperately tenacious. His was
a name to conjure with among the criminal
classes, and his career was starred with various
sensational tussles with desperate criminals, for
Detective-Inspector Manderton, when engaged on
a case, invariably “took a hand himself,” as he
phrased it, when an arrest was to be made. A bul-
let-hole in his right thigh and an imperfectly
knitted right collar-bone remained to remind him
of this propensity of his. His motto, as he was
fond of saying, was, “What I have I hold! ”
“Well, Mr. Greve,” said the detective in a loud,
hectoring voice, “perhaps you will be good
enough to tell me what you know of this affair?”
Robin flushed angrily at the man's manner. But
there was no trace of resentment in his voice as
he replied. He told Manderton what he had al-
ready told Humphries: how he had gone from
the billiard-room across the hall and down the li.
brary corridor to the side-door into the grounds,
intending to have a stroll before tea, but, finding


86
THE YELLOW STREAK
that it was threatening rain, had returned to the
house by the front door.
The detective scanned the young man's face
closely as he spoke. When Robin had finished,
the other dropped his eyes and seemed to be ex-
amining the brilliant polish of his boots. He said
nothing, and again Robin became aware of the
atmosphere of hostility towards him which this
man radiated.
“ It is dark at five o'clock?"
Manderton turned to Bude.
“ Getting on that way, sir,” the butler agreed.
“ Are you in the habit, sir," — the detective
turned to Robin now," of going out for walks
in the dark?”
Greve shrugged his shoulders.
“I had been sitting in the billiard-room. It was
rather stuffy, so I thought I'd like some air before
tea!”
“ You left Miss Trevert in the billiard-room?"
« Yes!”
“ Why? "
Greve put a hand to his throat and eased his
collar.
“ The gong had sounded for tea,” the detective
went on imperturbably; “surely it would have
been more natural for you to have brought Miss
Trevert with you?"


MR. MANDERTONE 87
"I didn't wish to!”
Mr. Manderton cleared his throat.
“Ah!” he grunted. “You didn't wish to. I
should like you to be frank with me, Mr. Greve,
please. Was it not a fact that you and Miss Tre-
vert had words?”
He looked up sharply at him with contracted
pupils.
“ You took a certain interest in this young
lady?"
“Mr. Manderton," — Robin spoke with a cer-
tain hauteur, — “don't you think we might leave
Miss Trevert's name out of this ? "
“ Mr. Greve," replied the detective bluntly, “I
don't!"
Robin made a little gesture of resignation.
“ Before the servants ..."
“Come, come, sir," the detective broke in,
“ with all respect to the young lady and yourself,
it was a matter of common knowledge in the house
that she and you were . . . well, old friends. It
was remarked, Mr. Greve, I may remind you, that
you looked very upset-like when you left the bil-
liard-room to” – he paused perceptibly “to
go for your stroll in the dark.”
Robin glanced quickly round the group. Jay
averted his eyes. As for Bude, he was the picture
of embarrassment.


88 THE YELLOW STREAK
of menann tell Bude
“ You seem to be singularly well posted in the
gossip of the servants' hall, Mr. Manderton!”
said Robin hotly.
It was a foolish remark, and Robin regretted
it the moment the words had left his mouth.
“Well, yes,” commented the detective slowly,
“I am. I shall be well posted on the whole of this
case, presently, I hope, sir!”
His manner was perfectly respectful, but re-
served almost to a tone of menace.
“In that case,” said Robin, “ I'll tell you some.
thing you don't know, Mr. Manderton. Has Bude
told you what he heard after I had passed him in
the hall?”
Interest flashed at once into the detective's
face. He turned quickly to the butler. Robin felt
he had scored.
“What did you hear?” he said sharply.
Bude looked round wildly. His large, fish-like
mouth twitched, and he made a few feeble ges-
tures with his hands.
“ It was only perhaps an idea of mine, sir,” he
stammered, "just a sort of idea ... I dare
say I was mistaken. My hearing ain't what it
was, sir ..."
“Don't you try to hoodwink me," said Mander-
ton, with sudden ferocity, knitting his brows and
frowning at the unfortunate butler. “Come on


90
THE YELLOW STREAK
murmur
“ Was Mr. Hartley Parrish's voice one of
tbem?"
The butler spread out his hands.
“ That I couldn't say! I just heard the murmur.
like, then shut the passage door quickly ..."
“ Why?"
“Well, sir, I thought ... I didn't want to lis.
ten ..."
“You thought one of the voices was Mr.
Greve's, eh? Having a row with Mr. Parrish, eh?
About the lady, isn't that right?"
“ Aren't you going rather too fast? ” said
Robin quietly.
But the detective ignored him.
“Come on and answer my question, my man,"
he said harshly. “Didn't you think it was Mr.
Hartley Parrish and Mr. Greve here having a bit
of a dust-up about the young lady being engaged
to Mr. Parrish?”
“Well, perhaps I did, but ..."
Like a flash the detective turned on Robin.
“What do you know about this?” he de-
manded fiercely.
“Nothing," said Greve. “As I have told you
already, I did not see Mr. Parrish alive again af-
ter lunch, nor did I speak to him. What I would
suggest to you now is that upon this evidence of
Bude's depends the vitally important question


MR. MANDERTON
91
of how Mr. Parrish met his death. Though he
was found with a revolver in his hand, none of us
in this house know of any good motive for his
suicide. I put it to you that the man who can fur-
nish us with this motive is the owner of the voice
heard by Bude in conversation with Mr. Parrish,
since obviously nobody other than Mr. Parrish
and possibly this unknown person was in the li-
brary block at the time. And I would further re-
mark, Mr. Manderton, that, until the bullet has
been extracted, we do not know that Mr. Parrish
killed himself ..."
“No,” said the detective significantly, “we
don't!”
He had dropped his eyes to the ground now and
was studying the pattern of the hearth-rug.
“You say you heard no shot?” he suddenly
asked Robin.
« No!”
“No one other than Miss Trevert, I gather,
heard the shot?”
“ That is so!”
Mr. Manderton consulted a slip of paper which
he drew from his pocket.
“ Inspector Humphries," he said, “ has drawn
up a rough time-table of events leading up to Mr.
Parrish’s death, based on the evidence he has


92
THE YELLOW STREAK
taken here this evening. You will tell me if it
tallies."
He read from the slip:
5 P.M. Bude sounds the gong for tea.
5.10 Mr. Greve passes Bude in the hall and goes
down the corridor leading to the library.
Mr. Greve states he went straight out by
the side door into the gardens.
The detective looked up from his reading.
“At 5.12, let us say, Bude comes back from the
servants' quarters to the hall and hears voices
from the library. He closes the passage door. Is
that right?"
Bude nodded.
“It would be about two minutes after I saw Mr.
Greve the first time,” he agreed.
“ Very well! ”
The detective resumed his reading.
5.15 P.M. Miss Trevert goes to fetch Mr. Parrish
in to tea. She finds the library door
locked. Tries the handle and hears a
shot.
5.18 (say) Miss Trevert comes into the lounge hall
and gives the alarm.
“Now, sir,” said Mr. Manderton briskly, “I
should like to ask you one or two further ques-
tions. Firstly, how long were you out on your
stroll in the dark?"
“I should think about two or three minutes."


MR. MANDERTON
93
: « That is to say, if you left the house by the
side door at 5.10, you were back in the house by
5.13."
“ Yes, that would be right,” Robin agreed.
“And what did you do when you came in?”
“I went up to my room to fetch a letter for the
post.”
“Miss Trevert heard the shot fired at 5.15.
Where were you at that time?”
“In my bedroom, I should say. I was there for
a few minutes as I had to write a cheque ..."
“ And where is your bedroom?"
“In the other wing above the billiard-room."
“Hm! A pistol shot makes a great deal of noise.
It seems strange that nobody in the house should
have heard it.”
Here Bude interposed.
“ Mr. Parrish, sir, was very particular about
noise. He had the library door and the door lead.
ing from the front hall to the library corridor
specially felted so that he should not hear any
sounds from the house when he was working in
the library. That library wing was absolutely
shut off from the rest of the house. It was always
uncommon quiet ..."
But the detective, ignoring him, turned to
Robin again.
“I have been round the house," he said. “It


94
THE YELLOW STREAK
does not seem to me it ought to take you three or
even two minutes to walk from the side door to
the front door. I should say it would be a matter
of about thirty seconds!”
“Excuse me," Robin answered quickly, “I
didn't say I went straight from the side to the
front door. I went through the gardens following
the path that leads to the main drive. There I
turned and came back to the front door.”
“ And you assert that you heard nothing?"
“ I heard nothing."
“ Neither the 'loud voices' which the butler
heard within two minutes of your leaving the
house nor the shot fired five minutes later?”
“I heard nothing."
Mr. Manderton examined the toes of his boots
carefully.
“You heard nothing!” he repeated.
The door opened suddenly and Dr. Romain ap-
peared. With him was the village practitioner
and Inspector Humphries.
Dr. Redstone carried in his hand a little pad of
cotton wool. He bore it over to the fireplace and
unwrapping the lint showed a twisted fragment
of lead lying on the bloodstained dressing.
“Straight through the heart and lodged in the
spine,” he said. “Death was absolutely instan.
taneous."


MR. MANDERTON
95
The detective picked up the bullet and scrutin-
ized it closely.
“ Browning pistol ammunition," observed
Humphries; “ it fits the gun he used. There's half
a dozen spare rounds in one of the drawers of his
dressing-room upstairs."
Mr. Manderton drew Inspector Humphries and
Dr. Redstone into a corner of the room where they
conversed in undertones. Bude and Jay had van-
ished. Dr. Romain turned to Robin Greve, who
stood lost in a reverie, staring into the fire.
“A clear case of suicide,” he said. “The medi-
cal evidence is conclusive on that point. A most
amazing affair. I can't conceive what drove him
to it. Why did he do it?”
“Ah! why?" said Robin.


CHAPTER X
A SMOKING CHIMNEY
A RED sun glowed dully through a thin mist when,
on the following morning, Robin Greve emerged
from the side door into the gardens of Harkings.
It was a still, mild day. Moisture from the night's
rain yet hung translucent on the black limbs of
the bare trees and glistened like diamonds on the
closely cropped turf of the lawn. In the air was a
pleasant smell of damp earth.
Robin paused an instant outside the door in the
library corridor and inhaled the morning air
greedily. He had spent a restless, fitful night.
His sleep had been haunted by the riddle which,
since the previous evening, had cast its shadow
over the pleasant house. The mystery of Hartley
Parrish's death obsessed him. If it was suicide,
- and the doctors were both positive on the
point — the motive eluded him utterly.
His mind, trained to logical processes of rea-
soning by his practice of the law, baulked at the
theory. When he thought of Hartley Parrish as
he had seen him at luncheon on the day before,
striding with his quick, vigorous step into the
room, boyishly curious to know what the chef


A SMOKING CHIMNEY 97
was giving them to eat, devouring his lunch with
obvious animal enjoyment, brimful of energy,
dominating the table with his forceful, eager per-
sonality ...
The sound of voices in the library broke in upon
his thoughts. Robin raised his head ai
Some one appeared to be talking in a loud voice
... no, not talking . . , rather declaiming.
Stepping quietly on the hard gravel path, Rob-
in turned the corner of the house and came into
view of the library window. The window-pane
gaped, shattered where Horace Trevert had brok-
en the glass on the previous evening when effect-
ing an entrance into the room. Framed in the
ragged outline of the splintered glass, bulked the
large form of Sergeant Harris. He stood half
turned from the window so as to catch the light
on a copy of The Times which he held in his red
and freckled hands. He was reading aloud in sten.
torian tones from a leading article.
“ While this country," he bawled sonorously,
" cannot ... in h’our belief ... hevade ...
er ..responsibility ..i er . . . h’m
disquieting sitwation ..."
“Dear me!” thought Robin to himself, “ what
a very extraordinary morning pursuit for our
police!”
Suddenly the reading was interrupted.


98 THE YELLOW STREAK
Robin heard the library door open. Then Man.
derton's voice cried:
6 That'll do, thank you, Sergeant!"
“ Did you 'ear me, sir?” asked the sergeant,
who seemed very much relieved to be quit of his
task.
“ Not a word!” was the reply. “But we'll try
with the library door open! I'll go back to the
hall and you start again!”
A thoughtful look on his face, Robin turned
quickly and, hurrying round the side of the house,
entered by the front door. Standing by the door
leading to the library corridor he found Man-
derton.
The detective did not seem particularly glad to
see him.
“ Good-morning, Inspector,” said Robin affa-
bly, “ you're early to work, I see. Having a little
experiment, eh?”.
Manderton nodded without replying. Then the
stentorian tones of Sergeant Harris proclaiming
the views of “ The Thunderer” on the Silesian
situation rolled down the corridor and struck dis-
tinctly on the ears of the listeners in the hall.
Presently Manderton closed the corridor door,
shutting off the sound abruptly.
“I think you said you could not hear the ser-
geant with the library door shut?” queried Rob.
in suavely.


A SMOKING CHIMNEY
99
“With the door shut — no," answered the de-
tective shortly. “But with the door open ...".
He broke off significantly and dropped his eyes
to his boots.
“Would it be troubling you,” Robin struck in,
“if we pushed your experiment one step
farther?”
Manderton lifted his eyes and looked at the
young man. Robin met his gaze unflinchingly.
66 Well?"
There was no invitation in his voice, but Robin
affected to disregard the other's coldness.
“Let the library door be shut,” said Robin,
“but leave the glass door leading into the garden
open. Then give Sergeant Harris another trial at
his reading ..."
The detective smiled rather condescendingly.
“ With the library door shut, you'll hear noth-
ing,” he remarked.
“The library window is open," Robin retorted,
“ or rather it is as good as open, as one of the two
big panes is smashed ..."
His voice vibrated with eagerness. The detec-
tive looked at him curiously.
“Oh, try if you like,” he said carelessly.
Without waiting for his assent, Robin had al-
ready plucked open the corridordoorand was half-
way down the passage as the other replied. He


100 THE YELLOW STREAK
was
was back again almost at once and, motioning the
detective to silence, took his place at his side by
the open door. Then the sound of the policeman's
voice was heard from the corridor. It was muffled
and indistinct so that the sense of his words could
not be made out. But the voice was audible
enough.
Robin turned to the detective.
“ Bude could make out no words," he said.
“But how do we know that the glass door was
open?” queried the detective sceptically.
“Because I left it, open myself,” Robin coun.
tered promptly, “when I went out for my walk
before tea. Sir Horace told me that he found the
door banging about in the wind when he went out
to get into the library by the window.”
Mr. Manderton allowed his fat, serious face to
expand very slowly into a broad, superior smile.
“Doesn't it seem a little curious," he said,
" that Mr. Hartley Parrish should choose to sit
and work in the library on a gusty and dark win-
ter evening with the window wide open? You'll
allow, I think, that the window was not broken
until after his death ..."
Robin's nerves were ragged. The man's tone
nettled him exceedingly. But he confined himself
to making a little gesture of impatience.
“ No, no, sir," said Mr. Manderton, very de-


A SMOKING CHIMNEY
101
cidedly, “I prefer to think that the library door
was open, left open by the party who went in to
speak to Mr. Parrish yesterday afternoon ...
and who knows more about the gentleman's sui-
cide than he would have people think ..."
Robin boiled over fairly at this.
“Good God, man!” he exclaimed, “ do you ac-
cept this theory of suicide as blandly as all that?
Have you examined the body? Don't you use
your eyes? I tell you ... bah, what's the use?
I'm not here to do your work for you! ..."
“No, sir," said the detective, quite unruffled,
“ you are not. And I think I'll continue to see
about it myself!”
With that he opened the corridor door and van.
ished down the passage.
With great deliberation Robin selected a cigar-
ette from his case, lit it, and walked out through
the front door into the fresh air again. More
than ever he felt the riddle of Hartley Parrish's
death weighing upon his mind.
His intuitive sense rebelled against the theory
of suicide, despite the medical evidence, despite
the revolver in the dead man's hand, despite the
detective's assurance. And floating about in his
brain, like the gossamer on the glistening bushes
in the gardens, were broken threads of vague sus-


102
THE YELLOW STREAK
picions, of half-formed theories, leading from his
hasty observations in the death chamber ...
In itself the death of Hartley Parrish left him
cold. Yes, he must admit that. But the look in
Mary Trevert's eyes, as she had urged him to
shield himself from the suspicion of having
driven Hartley Parrish to his death, haunted him.
Already dimly he was beginning to realize that
Hartley Parrish in death might prove as insuper-
able a bar between him and Mary Trevert as ever
he had been in life ..
She was now a wealthy woman. Hartley Par-
rish's will had ensured that, he knew. But it was
not the barrier of riches that Robin Greve feared.
He had asked Mary Trevert to be his wife before
there was any thought of her inheriting Parrish's
fortune. He derived a little consolation from that
reflection. At least he could not appear as a for-
tune-hunter in her eyes. But, until he could clear
himself of the suspicion lurking in Mary Tre-
vert's mind that he, Robin Greve, was in some
way implicated in Hartley Parrish's death, the
dead man, he felt, would always stand between
them. And so ...
Robin pitched the stump of his cigarette into a
rose-bush with a little gesture of resignation. Al-
most without knowing it, he had strolled into the
rosery up a shallow flight of steps cut into the


A SMOKING CHIMNEY
103
bank of green turf, which ran along the side of
the house facing the library window to the corner
of the house where it met the clipped box-hedge
of the Pleasure Ground.
The rosery was a pleasant rectangle framed in
a sort of rustic bower which in the summer was
covered with superb roses of every hue and vari.
ety. Gravel paths intersected rose-beds cut into
all manner of fantastic shapes where stood the
slender shoots of the young rose-trees each with
its tag setting forth its kind, for Hartley Parrish
had been an enthusiastic amateur in this direc-
tion.
Robin turned round and faced the house. From
his elevation he could look down into the library
through the window with its shattered pane. He
could see the gleaming polish on Hartley Par-
rish's big desk and the great arm-chair pushed
back as Hartley Parrish had pushed it from him
just before his death.
The bare poles of the woodwork festooned with
the black arms of the creeping roses, standing
out dark in the fast falling winter evening, must,
he reflected, have been the last view that Hartley
Parrish had had before ...
But then he broke off his meditations abruptly.
His eye had fallen on a narrow white patch


104
THE YELLOW STREAK
standing out on one of the uprights supporting
the clambering roses.
It was a stout young tree, the light brown bark
left adhering to its surface. It was a long blaze
on the bark on the side of the trunk which had
caught his eye. Robin walked round the gravel
path until he was within a foot of the pole to get
a better view.
The pole stood almost exactly opposite the li-
brary window. The scar in the bark was high up
and diagonal and quite freshly made, for the
wood was dead white and much splintered.
The young man put a hand on the upright for
support and leant forward, carefully refraining
from putting his foot on the soft brown mould of
the flower-bed which fringed the path between it
and the rustic woodwork. Then he ran lightly
down the steps until he stood with his back to the
library window. From here he carefully surveyed
the upright again, then, returning to the rosery,
began a careful scrutiny of the gravel paths and
the beds.
Apparently his search gave little result, for he
presently abandoned it and turned his attention
to the wooden framework on the other side of the
rectangular rose-garden. He plunged boldly in
among the rose-bushes and examined each up-
right in turn. He spent about half an hour in this


A SMOKING CHIMNEY 105
meticulous investigation, and then, his boots cov-
ered with mould, his rough shooting-coat glisten-
ing with moisture, he walked slowly down the
steps and reëntered the house.
As he was wiping the mud off his boots on the
great mat in the front hall, Bude came out of the
lounge hall with a pile of dishes on a tray.
“Bude," said Robin, “can you tell me if the
fire in the library has been smoking of late?”
“Well, sir,” replied the butler, “we've always
had trouble with that chimdy when the wind's
in the southwest.”
“ Has it been smoking lately? " The young man
reiterated his question impatiently.
The man looked up in surprise.
“Well, sir, now you come to mention it, it has.
As a matter o'fact, sir, the sweep was ordered for
to-day ..."
«Why?"
“Well, sir, Mr. Parrish had mentioned it to
me ..."
“ When?"
The question came out like a pistol shot.
“Yesterday, sir," answered the butler blandly.
“ Just before luncheon, it was, sir. Mr. Parrish
told me to have that chimdy seen to at once. And
I telephoned for the sweep immediately after
luncheon, sir ..."


CHAPTER XI
li... SPEED THE PARTING GUEST!”
DR. ROMAIN was just finishing his breakfast as
Robin Greve entered the dining-room, a cosy oak.
panelled room with a bow window fitted with
cushioned window-seats. Horace Trevert stood
with his back to the fire. There was no sign of
either Lady Margaret or of Mary. Silence seemed
to fall on both the doctor and his companion as
Robin came in. They wore that rather abashed
look which people unconsciously assume when
they break off a conversation on an unexpected
entry.
“ Morning, Horace! Morning, Doctor!” said
Robin, crossing to the sideboard. “Any sign of
Lady Margaret or Mary yet?”
The doctor had risen hastily to his feet.
“I rather think Dr. Redstone is expecting me,”
he said rapidly; “I half promised to go over to
Stevenish . . . think I'll just run over. The
walk'll do me good ..."
He looked rather wildly about him, then fairly
bolted from the room.
Robin, the cover of the porridge dish in his
hand, turned and stared at him.


108
THE YELLOW STREAK
“Why, whatever's the matter with Romain?”
he began.
But Horace, who had not spoken a word, was
himself halfway to the door.
“Horace!" called out Robin sharply.
The boy stopped with his back towards the
other. But he did not turn round.
Robin put the cover back on the porridge dish
and crossed the room.
“ You all seem in the deuce of a hurry this
morning ..." he said.
Still the boy made no reply.
“ Why, Horace, what's the matter?”
Robin put his hand on young Trevert's
shoulder. Horace shook him roughly off.
“I don't care to discuss it with you, Robin!”
he said.
Robin deliberately swung the boy round until
he faced him.
“ My dear old thing," he expostulated. “What
does it all mean? What won't you discuss with
me?"
Horace Trevert looked straight at the speaker.
His upper lip was pouted and trembled a little.
“ What's the use of talking?” he said. “You
know what I mean. Or would you like me to be
plainer ..."
Robin met his gaze unflinchingly.


SPEED THE PARTING GUEST 109
“I certainly would,” he said, " if it's going to
enlighten me as to why you should suddenly
choose to behave like a lunatic ..."
Horace Trevert leant back and thrust his hands
into his pockets.
“ After what happened here yesterday,” he
said, speaking very clearly and deliberately, “I
wonder you have the nerve to stay ..."
“My dear Horace,” said Robin quite impas.
sively, “would you mind being a little more ex-
plicit? What precisely are you accusing me of?
What have I done?”
“ Done?” exclaimed the young man heatedly.
“Done? Good God! Don't you realize that you
have dragged my sister into this wretched busi-
ness? Don't you understand that her name will
be bandied about before a lot of rotten yokels at
the inquest?"
Robin Greve's eyes glittered dangerously.
“I confess," he said, with elaborate politeness,
“ I scarcely understand what it has to do with me
that Hartley Parrish should apparently commit
suicide within a few days of becoming engaged
to your sister ..."
“ Ha!”
Horace Trevert snorted indignantly.
“ You don't understand, don't you? We don't


110 THE YELLOW STREAK
understand either. But, I must say, we thought
you did!”
With that he turned to go. But Robin caught
him by the arm.
; “ Listen to me, Horace," he said. “I'm not
going to quarrel with you in this house of death.
But you're going to tell here and now what you
meant by that remark. Do you understand? I'm
going to know!”
Horace Trevert shook himself free.
“ Certainly you shall know," he answered with
hauteur,“ but I must say I should have thought
that, as a lawyer and so on, you would have
guessed my meaning without my having to ex-
plain. What I mean is that, now that Hartley
Parrish is dead, there is only one man who knows
what drove him to his death. And that's your-
self! Do you want it plainer than that?”
Robin took a step back and looked at his friend.
But he did not speak.
“ And now," the boy continued, “ perhaps you
will realize that your presence here is disagree.
able to Mary ..."
“ Did Mary ask you to tell me this?” Robin
broke in.
His voice had lost its hardness. It was almost
wistful. The change of tone was so marked that
it struck Horace. He hesitated an instant.


SPEED THE PARTING GUEST 111
“ Yes,” he blurted out. “She doesn't want to
see you again. I don't want to be offensive,
Robin ..."
“Please don't apologize," said Greve. “I quite
understand that this is your sister's house now
and, of course, I shall leave at once. I'll ask Jay
to pack my things if you could order the car ..."
The boy moved towards the door. Before he
reached it Robin called him back.
“ Horace,” he said pleasantly, “ before you go
I want you to answer me a question. Think be-
fore you speak, because it's very important. When
you got into the library yesterday evening
through the window, you smashed the glass,
didn't you?”
Horace Trevert nodded.
“ Yes,” he replied, looking hard at Robin.
“ Why?"
“To get into the room, of course!"
“Was the window bolted?"
The boy stopped and thought.
“ No," he said slowly,“ now I come to think of
it, I don't believe it was. No, of course, it wasn't.
I just put my arm through the broken pane and
shoved the window up. But why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing," answered Robin nonchalantly.
“I just was curious to know, that's all!"


112 THE YELLOW STREAK
Horace stood and looked at him for an instant.
Then he went out.
A quarter of an hour later, Hartley Parrish's
Rolls-Royce glided through the straggling main
street of Stevenish. A chapel bell tinkled un-
musically, and on the pavements, gleaming with
wet, went a procession of neatly dressed towns-
folk bound, prayer-book in hand, for their respec-
tive places of worship. A newsboy, sorting out
the Sunday newspapers which had just come
down by train from London, was the only figure
visible on the little station platform. Robin
bought a selection.
“There's all about Mr. Parrish," said the boy,
“ 'im as they found dead up at 'Arkings las' night.
And the noospapers ’asn't ’arf been sendin' down
to-day ... reporters and photographers ...
you oughter seen the crowd as come by the morn-
in' train ..."
“I wonder what they'll get out of Manderton,"
commented Robin rather grimly to himself as his
train puffed leisurely, after the habit of Sunday
trains, into the quiet little station.
In the solitude of his first-class smoker he un-
folded the newspapers. None had more than the
brief fact that Hartley Parrish had been found
dead with a pistol in his hand, but they made up
for the briefness of their reports by long accounts


SPEED THE PARTING GUEST 113
of the dead man's "meteoric career.” And, Robin
noted with relief, hitherto Mary Trevert's name
was out of the picture.
He dropped the papers on to the seat, and, as
the train steamed serenely through the Sunday
calm of the country towards London's outer sub-
urbs, he reviewed in his mind such facts as he
had gleaned regarding the circumstances of his
late host's death.
· He would, he told himself, accept for the time
being as facts what, he admitted to himself, so
far only seemed to be such. Hartley Parrish, then,
had been seated in his library at his desk with the
door locked. The fire was smoking, and therefore
he had opened the window. According to Horace
Trevert, the window had not been bolted when he
had entered the library, for, after smashing the
pane in the assumption that the bolt was shot, he
had had no difficulty in pushing up the window.
Hartley Parrish had opened the window himself,
for on the nail of the middle finger of his left
hand Robin had seen, with the aid of the magni.
fying-glass, a tiny fragment of white paint.
Who had closed it? He had no answer ready to
that question.
Now, as to the circumstances of the shooting.
The suicide theory invited one to believe that
Hartley Parrish had got up from his desk, push.


114 THE YELLOW STREAK
ing back his chair, had gone round it until he
stood between the desk and the window, and had
there shot himself through the heart. Why should
he have done this?.
Robin had no answer ready to this question
either. He passed on again. Bude had heard loud
voices a very few minutes before Mary had heard
the shot. That morning's experiments had shown
that Bude could have heard these sounds only by
way of the open window of the library and the
open doors of the garden and the library corridor.
Additional proof, if Bude had heard aright, that
the library window was open.
Leaning back in his seat, his finger-tips pressed
together, Robin Greve resolutely faced the situa-
tion to which his deductions were leading him.
“ The voice heard at the open window," he told
himself,“was the voice of the man who murdered
Parrish and who closed the window, that is, of
course, if the murder theory proves more conclu-
sive than that of suicide."
This brought him back to his investigations in
the rosery. The abrasure he had discovered on
the timber upright was the mark of a bullet and
a mark freshly made at that. Moreover, it had al-
most certainly been fired from the library win.
dow - from the window which Parrish had
opened; the angle at which it had struck and


SPEED THE PARTING GUEST 115
OSE
marked the tree showed that almost conclusively.
Yet there had been but one shot! If only he had
been able to find that bullet in the rosery! Robin
thought ruefully of his long hunt among the sop.
ping rose-bushes.
Yes, there had been only one shot. Mary Tre-
vert had stated it definitely. Besides, the bullet
that had killed Hartley Parrish had been fired
from his own revolver and had been found in the
body. Robin Greve felt the murder theory col.
lapsing about him. But the suicide theory did not
stand up, either. What possible, probable motive
had Hartley Parrish for taking his own life?
“He wasn't the man to do it!"
The wheels of the train took up the rhythm of
the phrase and dinned it into his ears.
“He wasn't the man to do it! ”
The riddle seemed more baffling than ever.
Robin thrust one hand into his right-hand pock.
et to get his pipe, his other hand into his left-
hand pocket to find his pouch. His left hand came
into contact with a little ball of paper.
He drew it out. It was the little ball of slatey.
blue paper he had found on the floor of the library
beside Hartley Parrish's dead body,


CHAPTER XII
MR. MANDERTON IS NONPLUSSED
HORACE TREVERT walked abruptly into Mary's
Chinese boudoir. Lady Margaret and the girl
were standing by the fire.
“Well," said Horace, dropping into a chair,
“he's gone!”
“ Who?" said Lady Margaret.
“Robin,” answered the boy, “and I must say
he took it very well ..."
“You don't mean to tell me, Horace,” said his
mother, “that you have actually sent Robin
Greve away ...?”
Mary Trevert put her hand on her mother's
arm.
“I wished it, Mother. I asked Horace to send
him away ..."
“But, my dear,” protested Lady Margaret.
Mary interrupted her impatiently.
“ Robin Greve was impossible here. I had to
ask him to go. I suppose he can come back if .,.
if they want him for the inquest ..."
Lady Margaret was looking at her daughter in
a puzzled way. She was a woman of the world
and had brought her daughter up to be a woman


MR. MANDERTON IS NONPLUSSED 117
of the world. She knew that Mary was not impul.
sive by nature. She knew that there was a wealth
of good sense behind those steady eyes.
In response to a look from his mother, Horace
got up and left the room.
“ Mary, dear," said the older woman, “ don't
you think you are making a mistake?”
The girl turned away, one slim shoe tapping
restlessly against the brass rail of the fireplace.
“My dear,” her mother went on,“ remember I
have known Robin Greve all his life. His father,
the Admiral, was a very old friend of mine. He
was the very personification of honour. Robin is
very fond of you ... no, he has told me nothing,
but I know. Don't you think it is rather hard on
an old friend to turn him away just when you
most want him?"
There was a heightened colour in the girl's face
as she turned and looked her mother in the face.
“Robin has not behaved like a friend, Mother,"
she answered. “He knows more than he pretends
about ... about this. And he lets me find out
things from the servants when he ought to have
told me himself. If he is suspected of having said
something to Hartley which made him do this
dreadful thing, he has only himself to thank. I
did try to shield him — before I knew. But I'm
not going to do so any more. If he stays I shall


118
THE YELLOW STREAK
have the police suspecting me all the time. And
I owe something to Hartley ..."
Her mother sighed a soft little sigh. She said
nothing. She was a very wise woman.
“ Robin left me to go to the library. i. I am
sure of that ..." Mary went on breathlessly.
“Why?” her mother asked.
The girl hesitated.
Then she said slowly:
“You and I have always been good pals,
Mother, so I may as well tell you. Robin had just
asked me to marry him. So I told him I was en-
gaged to Hartley. He went on in the most awful
way, and said that I was selling myself and that
I would not be the first girl that Hartley had
kept ..."
She broke off and raised her hands to her face.
Then she put her elbows on the mantel-shelf and
burst into tears.
“Oh, it was hateful," she sobbed.
Her mother put her arm round her soothingly.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “ Robin was always
fond of you, and I dare say it was a shock to him.
When men feel like that about a girl they gener.
ally say things they don't mean ..."
Mary Trevert straightened herself up and
dropped her hands to her side. She faced her


MR. MANDERTON IS NONPLUSSED 119
mother, the tear-drops glistening on her long
lashes.
“He meant it, every word of it. And he was
perfectly right. I was selling myself, and you
know I was, Mother. Do you think we can go on
for ever like this, living on credit and dodging
tradesmen? I meant to marry Hartley and stick
to him. But I never thought . .. I never guessed
... that Robin ..."
“I know, my dear,” her mother interposed, “I
know. Perhaps it doesn't sound a very proper
thing to say in the circumstances, but now that
poor Hartley is gone, there is no reason whatso-
ever why you and Robin ..."
The Treverts were a hot-tempered race. Lady
Margaret's unfinished sentence seemed to infu-
riate the girl.
“Do you think I'd marry Robin Greve as long
as I thought he knew the mystery of Hartley's
death!" she cried passionately. "I was willing to
give up my self-respect once to save us from ruin,
but I won't do it again. I'm not surprised to find
you thinking I am ready to marry Robin and live
happy ever after on poor Hartley's money. But
I've not sunk so low as that! If you ever mention
this to me again, Mother, I promise you I'll go
away and never come back!”.
“My dear child,” temporized Lady Margaret,


120
THE YELLOW STREAK
eyebrows raised in protest at this outburst,
“of course, it shall be as you wish. I only
thought ..."
But Mary Trevert was not listening. She leant
on the mantel-shelf, her dark head in her hands,
and she murmured:
“The tragedy of it! My God, the tragedy of it!"
Lady Margaret twisted the rings on her long
white fingers.
« The tragedy of it, my dear," she said, " is that
you have sent away the man you love at a
time when you will never need him so badly
again ..."
There was a discreet tapping at the door.
« Come in!” said Lady Margaret.
Bude appeared.
“Mr. Manderton, the detective, my lady, was
wishing to know whether he might see Miss Tre-
vert ..."
“ Yes. Ask him to come up here," commanded
Lady Margaret.
“He is without- in the corridor, my lady!”
He stepped back and in a moment Mr. Mander-
ton stepped into the room, big, burly, and deter-
mined.
He made a little stiff bow to the two ladies and
halted irresolute near the door.


MR. MANDERTON IS NONPLUSSED 121
“You wished to see my daughter, Mr. Mander-
ton,” said Lady Margaret.
The detective bowed again.
“And you, too, my lady,” he said. “Allow me!”
He closed the door, then crossed to the fire-
place.
“ After I had seen you and Miss Trevert last
night, my lady,” he began, “I had a talk with Mr.
Jeekes, Mr. Parrish’s principal secretary, who
came down by car from London as soon as he
heard the news. My lady, I think this is a fairly
simple case!”
He paused and scanned the carpet.
“Mr. Jeekes tells me, my lady,” he went on
presently," that Mr. Parrish had been suffering
from neurasthenia and a weak heart brought on
by too much smoking. It appears that he had con-
sulted, within the last two months, two leading
specialists of Harley Street about his health. One
of these gentlemen, Sir Winterton Maire, ordered
him to knock off all work and all smoking for at
least three months. He will give evidence to this
effect at the inquest. Mr. Parrish disregarded
these orders as he was wishful to put through his
scheme for Hornaway's before taking a rest. Mr.
Jeekes can prove that. In these circumstances,
my lady ..."
Well? »


122 THE YELLOW STREAK
.
Lady Margaret, in her black crêpe de chine
dress, setting off the silvery whiteness of her hair,
was a calm, unemotional figure as she sat in her
lacquer chair.
“ Well?" she asked again.
“Well,” said the detective,“ the verdict will be
one of 'Suicide whilst of unsound mind,' and in
my opinion the medical evidence will be sufficient
to bring that in. There will not be occasion, I
fancy, my lady, to probe any farther into the mo-
tives of Mr. Parrish's action ..."
“And are you personally satisfied” — Mary's
voice broke in clear and unimpassioned _“ are
you personally satisfied, Mr. Manderton, that Mr.
Parrish shot himself?”
The detective cast an appealing glance at the
tips of his well-burnished boots.
“ Yes, Miss, I think I may say I am ..."
“And what about the evidence of Bude, who
said he heard voices in the library ..."
Mr. Manderton gave his shoulders the merest
suspicion of a shrug, raised his hands, and
dropped them to his sides.
“I had hoped, my lady,” he said, throwing a
glance at Lady Margaret, “and you, Miss, that I
had made it clear that in the circumstances we
need not pursue that matter any further ..."


MR. MANDERTON IS NONPLUSSED 123
Lady Margaret rose. Her dominating person.
ality seemed to fill the room.
“We are extremely obliged to you, Mr. Man.
derton,” she said, " for the able and discreet way
in which you have handled this case. I sometimes
meet the Chief Commissioner at dinner. I shall
write to Sir Maurice and tell him my opinion.”
Mr. Manderton reddened a little.
“Your ladyship is too good,” he said.
Lady Margaret bowed to signify that the inter-
view was at an end. But Mary Trevert left her
side and walked to the door.
“ Will you come downstairs with me, Mr. Man-
derton,” she said. “I should like to speak to you
alone for a minute!”
She led the way downstairs through the hall
and out into the drive. A pale sun shone down
from a grey and rainy sky, and the damp breeze
blowing from the sodden trees played among the
ringlets of her dark hair.
“We will walk down the drive," she said to the
detective, who, rather astonished, had followed
her. “We can talk freely out of doors."
They took a dozen steps in silence. Then she
said:
“Who was it speaking to Mr. Parrish in the li.
brary?"


124
THE YELLOW STREAK
“ Undoubtedly Mr. Greve," replied the man
without hesitation.
“Why undoubtedly? " asked the girl.
“It could have been no one else. We know that
he left you hot to get at Mr. Parrish and have
words with him. Bude heard them talking with
voices raised aloud ..."
“But if the door were locked?"
“Mr. Parrish may have opened it and locked
it again, Mr. Greve getting out by the window.
But there are no traces of that ... one would
look to find marks on the paint on the inside. Be-
sides, a little test we made this morning suggests
that Mr. Greve spoke to Mr. Parrish through the
window ..."
“ Was the window open?”
“ Yes, Miss, it probably was. The fire had been
smoking in the library. Mr. Parrish had com-
plained to Bude about it. Besides, we have found
Mr. Parrish's finger-prints on the inside of the
window-frame. Outside we found other finger-
prints ... Sir Horace's. Sir Horace was good
enough to allow his to be taken.”
The girl looked at the detective quickly.
“ Were there any other finger-prints except
Horace's on the outside?" she asked.
Mr. Manderton shook his head.
“ No, Miss," he answered.


126 THE YELLOW STREAK
detective remained standing on the drive. Very
deliberately he produced a short briar pipe, cut
a stub of dark plug tobacco from a flat piece he
carried in his pocket, crammed the tobacco into
his pipe, and lit it. Reflectively he blew a thin
spiral of smoke into the still air.
“ He told me about that fat butler's evidence,"
he said to himself; "he put me wise about that
window being open; he gave me the office about
the paint on the finger-nails of Mr. H. P.”
He ticked off each point on his fingers with the
stem of his pipe.
“Why? " said Mr. Manderton aloud, address-
ing a laurel-bush.


OB
CHAPTER XIII
JEEKES
MR. ALBERT EDWARD JEEKES, Hartley Parrish's
principal private secretary, lunched with Lady
Margaret, Mary and Horace. Dr. Romain seemed
not to have got over his embarrassment of the
morning, for he did not put in an appearance.
Mr. Jeekes was an old young man who sup-
ported bravely the weight of his Christian names,
a reminder of his mother having occupied some
small post in the household of Queen Victoria.
the Good. He might have been any age between
35 and 50 with his thin sandy hair, his myopic
gaze, and his habitual expression of worried per.
plexity.
He was a shorthand-writer and typist of in-
credible dexterity and speed which, combined
with an unquenchable energy, had recommended
him to Hartley Parrish. Accordingly, in consid-
eration of a salary which he would have been the
first to describe as “ princely," he had during the
past four years devoted some fifteen hours a
day to the service of Mr. Hartley Parrish.
He was unmarried. When not on duty, either


128 THE YELLOW STREAK
at St. James's Square, Harkings, or Hartley Par.
rish's palatial offices in Broad Street, he was to
be found at one of those immense and gloomy
clubs of indiscriminate membership which are
dotted about the parish of St. James's, 8. W., and
to which Mr. Jeekes was in the habit of referring
in Early-Victorian accents of respect.
“When I heard the news at the club, Miss Tre-
vert,” said Jeekes, "you could have knocked me
down with a feather. Mr. Parrish, as all of us
knew, worked himself a great deal too hard,
sometimes not knocking off for his tea, even, and
wore his nerves all to pieces. But I never
dreamed it would come to this. Ah! he's a great
loss, and what we shall do without him I don't
know. There was a piece in one of the papers
about him to-day — perhaps you saw it? — it
called him one of the captains of industry of
modern England.'"
“ You were always a great help to him, Mr.
Jeekes,” said Mary, who was touched by the little
man's hero-worship;“I am sure you realized that
he appreciated you."
“Well,” replied Mr. Jeekes, rubbing the palms
of his hands together," he did a great deal for
me. Took me out of a City office where I was get-
ting two pound five a week. That's what he did.
It was a shipping firm. I tell you this because it


JEEKES
129
has a bearing, Miss Trevert, on what is to follow.
Why did he pick me? I'll tell you.
“He was passing through the front office with
one of our principals when he asked him, just cas-
ually, what Union Pacific stood at. The boss
didn't know.
“A hundred and eighty-seven London parity,'
says I. He turned round and looked at me. "How
do you know that?' says he, rather surprised,
this being in a shipping office, you understand.
“I take an interest in the markets,' I replied.
‘Do you?' he says. "Then you might do for
me,' and tells me to come and see him."
“I went. He made me an offer. When I heard
the figure ... my word!”
Mr. Jeekes paused. Then added sadly:
“And I had meant to work for him to my dying
day!”
They were in the billiard-room seated on the
selfsame settee, Mary reflected, on which she and
Robin had sat - how long ago it seemed, though
only yesterday! Mary had carried the secretary
off after luncheon in order to unfold to him a plan
which she had been turning over in her mind ever
since her conversation with the detective.
“And what are you going to do now, Mr.
Jeekes?” she asked.
The little man pursed up his lips.


130. THE YELLOW STREAK
“Well,” he said, “I'll have to get something
else, I expect. I'm not expecting to find anything
so good as I had with Mr. Parrish. And things
are pretty crowded in the City, Miss Trevert,
what with all the boys back from the war, God
bless 'em, and glad we are to see 'em, I'm sure. I
hope you'll realize, Miss Trevert, that anything I
can do to help to put Mr. Parrish's affairs
straight ..."
"I was just about to say,” Mary broke in," that.
I hope you will not contemplate any change, Mr.
Jeekes. You know more about Mr. Parrish's af-
fairs than anybody else, and I shall be very glad
if you will stay on and help me. You know I have
been left sole executrix ..."
“Miss Trevert,” – the little man stammered in
his embarrassment, -“this is handsome of you.
I surely thought you would have wished to make
your own arrangements, appoint your own secre-
taries ..."
Mr. Jeekes broke off and looked at her, blinking
hard.
“Not at all,” said Mary. “Everything shall be
as it was. I am sure that Mr. Bardy will approve.
Besides, Mr. Jeekes, I want your assistance in
something else ..."
« Anything in my power ..." began Jeekes.
“Listen,” said Mary.


JEEKES
131.
She was all her old self-composed self now, a
charming figure in her plain blue serge suit with
a white silken shirt and black tie — the best ap-
proach to mourning her wardrobe could afford.
Already the short winter afternoon was drawing
in. Mysterious shadows lurked in the corners of
the long and narrow room.
“Listen," said Mary, leaning forward. “I want
to know why Mr. Parrish killed himself. I mean
to know. And I want you, Mr. Jeekes, to help me
to find out."
Something stirred ever so faintly in the re-
mote recesses of the billiard-room. A loose board
or something creaked softly and was silent.
“What was that?” the girl called out sharply.
“ Who's there?”
Mr. Jeekes got up and walked over to the door.
It was ajar. He closed it.
“ Just a board creaking,” he said as he resumed
his seat.
“I want your aid in finding out the motive for
this terrible deed,” — Mary Trevert was speaking
again, "I can't understand ... I don't see
clear ..."
“Miss Trevert," said Mr. Jeekes, clearing his
throat fussily, "I fear we must look for the mo-
tive in the state of poor Mr. Parrish's nerves. An
uncommonly high-strung man he always was,


132 THE YELLOW STREAK
and he smoked those long black strong cigars of
his from morning till night. Sir Winterton Maire
told him flatly -- Mr. Parrish, I recollect, re
peated his very words to me after Sir Winterton
had examined him—that, if he did not take a
complete rest and give up smoking, he would not
be answerable for the consequences. Therefore,
Miss Trevert ..."
“Mr. Jeekes," answered the girl, “I knew Mr.
Parrish pretty well. A woman, you know, gets to
the heart of a man's character very often quicker
than his daily associates in business. And I know
that Mr. Parrish was the last man in the world to
have done a thing like that. He was so ... so
undaunted. He made nothing of difficulties. He
relied wholly on himself. That was the secret of
his success. For him to have killed himself like
this makes me feel convinced that there was some
hidden reason, far stronger, far more terrible,
than any question of nerves ..."
Leaning forward, her hands clasped tightly in
front of her, Mary Trevert raised her dark eyes
to the little secretary's face..
“Many men have a secret in their lives," she
said in a low voice. “Do you know of anything in
Mr. Parrish's life which an enemy might have
made use of to drive him to his death?”
Her manner was so intense that Mr. Jeekes


JEEKES
133
quite lost his self-composure. He clutched at his
pince-nez and readjusted them upon his nose to
cover his embarrassment. The secretary was not
used to gazing at beautiful women whose expres-
sive features showed as clearly as this the play of
the emotions.
“Miss Trevert,” he said presently, “I know of
no such secret. But then what do I — what does
any one - know of Mr. Parrish's former life?"
“We might make enquiries in South Africa ? "
ventured the girl.
“I doubt if we should learn anything much
through that,” said the secretary. “Of course,
Mr.Parrish had great responsibilities and respon-
sibility means worry ..."
A silence fell on them both. From somewhere
in the dark shadows above the fire glowing red
through the falling twilight a clock chimed once.
There was a faint rustling from the neighborhood
of the door. Mr. Jeekes started violently. A coal
dropped noisily into the fireplace.
“ There was something else,” said Mary, ignor-
ing the interruption, and paused. She did not
look up when she spoke again.
“ There is often a woman in cases like this,"
she began reluctantly.
Mr. Jeekes looked extremely uncomfortable. .


JEEKES
135
like that, I am convinced. At least, that is to
say ..."
He rose to his feet, clutching the little attaché
case which he invariably carried with him as a
kind of emblem of office.
“And now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Trevert,"
he muttered, “I should really be going. I am due
at Mr. Bardy's office at five o'clock. He is coming
up from the country specially to meet me. There
is so much to discuss with regard to this terrible
affair."
He glanced at his watch.
“With the roads as greasy as they are," he
added, “it will take me all my time in the car
to ..."
He cast a panic-striken glance around him. But
Mary Trevert held him fast.
“You didn't finish what you were saying about
Mr. Parrish, Mr. Jeekes,” she said impassively.
The secretary made no sign. But he looked a trifle
sullen.
“I don't think you realize, Mr. Jeekes," she
said, " that other people besides myself are keenly
interested in the motives for Mr. Parrish's sui-
cide. The police profess to be willing to accept
the testimony of the specialists as satisfactory
medical evidence about his state of mind. But I
distrust that man, Manderton. He is not satisfied,


136 THE YELLOW STREAK
Mr. Jeekes. He won't rest until he knows the
truth."
The secretary cast her a frightened glance.
“But Mr. Manderton told me himself, Miss
Trevert,” he affirmed, " that the verdict would be,
'Suicide while temporarily insane,'on Sir Winter-
ton Maire's evidence alone ..."
Mary Trevert tapped the ground impatiently
with her foot.
"Manderton will get at the truth, I tell you,"
she said. “He's that kind of man. Do you want
me to find out from them? At the inquest, per-
haps?”
The secretary put his attaché case down on the
lounge again.
“Of course, that would be most improper, Miss
Trevert,” he said. “But your question embar-
rasses me. It embarrasses me very much ..."
“What are you keeping back from me, Mr.
Jeekes?” the girl demanded imperiously.
The secretary mopped his forehead with his
handkerchief. Then, as though with an effort, he
spoke.
“There is a lady, a French lady, who draws an
income from Mr. Parrish ..."
The girl remained impassive, but her eyes grew
rather hard.
San


JEEKES
137
“ These payments are still going on?" she
asked.
Jeekes hesitated. Then he nodded.
“ Yes,” he said.
“ Well? Was she blackmailing ... him?”
“ No, no," Mr. Jeekes averred hastily. “But
there was some unpleasantness some months
ago ... er ... a county court action, to be
precise, about some bills she owed. Mr. Parrish
was very angry about it and settled to prevent it
coming into court. But there was some talk about
it ... in legal circles ..."
He threw a rather scared glance at the girl.
“Please explain yourself, Mr. Jeekes,” she said
coldly. “I don't understand ..."
“Her lawyer was Le Hagen - it's a shady firm
with a big criminal practice. They sometimes
brief Mr. Greve ..."
Mary Trevert clasped and unclasped her hands
quickly.
“I quite understand, Mr. Jeekes,” she said.
“ You needn't say any more ..."
She turned away in a manner that implied dis-
missal. It was as though she had forgotten the
secretary's existence. He picked up his attaché
case and walked slowly to the door.
A sharp exclamation broke from his lips.


CHAPTER XIV
A SHEET OF BLUE PAPER
THE sight of that crumpled ball of slatey-blue
paper brought back to Robin's mind with aston-
ishing vividness every detail of the scene in the
library. Once more he looked into Hartley Par.
rish's staring, unseeing eyes, saw the firelight
gleam again on the heavy gold signet ring on
the dead man's hand, the tag of the dead man's
bootlace as it trailed from one sprawling foot
across the carpet. Once more he felt the dark
cloud of the mystery envelop him as a mist and
with a little sigh he smoothed out the crumpled
paper.
It was an ordinary quarto sheet of stoutish
paper, with a glazed surface, of an unusual shade
of blue, darker than what the stationers call
“azure,” yet lighter than legal blue. At the top
right-hand corner was typewritten a date: “ Nov.
25.” Otherwise the sheet was blank.
The curious thing about it was that a number
of rectangular slits had been cut in the paper.
Robin counted them. There were seven. They
were of varying sizes, the largest a little over an
inch, the smallest not more than a quarter of an


140 THE YELLOW STREAK
inch, in length. In depth they measured about an
eighth of an inch.
Robin stared at the paper uncomprehendingly.
He remembered perfectly where he had found it
on the floor of the library at Harkings, between
the dead body and the waste-paper basket. The
basket, he recalled, stood out in the open just
clear of the desk on the left-hand side. From the
position in which it was lying the ball of paper
might have been aimed for the waste-paper bas-
ket and, missing it, have fallen on the carpet.
Robin turned the sheet over. The back was
blank. Then he held the paper up to the light. Yes,
there was a water-mark. Now it was easily dis-
cernible. “EGMONT FF. QU.” he made out.
The train was slowing down. Robin glanced
out of the window and saw that they were cross-
ing the river in the mirky gloom of a London
winter Sunday. He balanced the sheet of paper
in his hands for a moment. Then he folded it
carefully into four and stowed it away in his
cigarette-case. The next moment the train
thumped its way into Charing Cross.
A taxi deposited him at the Middle Temple
Gate. He walked the short distance to the set of
chambers he occupied. On his front door a piece
of paper was pinned. By the rambling calligraphy


A SHEET OF BLUE PAPER 141
and the phonetic English he recognized the hand
of his “laundress."
Dere sir [it ran), mr rite call he want to see u
pertikler i tole im as you was in country & give im ur
adress hope i dun rite mrs bragg
Robin had scarcely got his key in the door of
his “ oak” when there was a step on the stair. A
nice-looking young man with close-cropped fair
hair appeared round the turn of the staircase.
“ Hullo, Robin," he exclaimed impetuously, “I
am glad to have caught you like this. Your wo-
man gave me your address, so I rang up Harkings
at once and they told me you had just gone back
to town. So I came straight here. You remember
me, don't you? Bruce Wright ... But perhaps
I'm butting in. If you'd rather see me some other
time ..."
“My dear boy,” said Robin, motioning him in-
to the flat, “of course I remember you. Only I
didn't recognize you just for the minute. Shove
your hat down here in the hall. And as for but-
ting in," — he threw open the door of the living.
room, — “why! I think there is no other man in
England I would so gladly see at this very mo-
ment as yourself.”
The living-room was a bright and cheery place,
tastefully furnished in old oak with gay chintz
curtains. It looked out on an old-world paved


142
THE YELLOW STREAK
court in the centre of which stood a solitary
soot-laden plane-tree.
“What's this rot about Parrish having com-
mitted suicide?" demanded the boy abruptly.
Robin gave him in the briefest terms an outline
of the tragedy.
“Poor old H. P., eh?” mused young Wright;
o who'd have thought it?"
“But the idea of suicide is preposterous," he
broke out suddenly. “I knew Parrish probably
better than anybody. He would never have
done a thing like that. It must have been an
accident ..."
Robin shook his head.
“ That possibility is ruled out by the medical
evidence,” he said, and stopped short.
Bruce Wright, who had been pacing up and
down the room, halted in front of the barrister.
"I tell you that Parrish was not the man to
commit suicide. Nothing would have even forced
him to take his own life. You know, I was work-
ing with him as his personal secretary every day
for more than two years, and I am sure!”
He resumed his pacing up and down the room.
“ Has it ever occurred to you, Robin," he said
presently, “ that practically nothing is known of
H. P.'s antecedents? For instance, do you know
where he was born?”


A SHEET OF BLUE PAPER
“I understand he was a Canadian," replied
Robin with a shrewd glance at the flushed face
of the boy.
“He's lived in Canada,” said Wright, “but
originally he was a Cockney, from the London
slums. And I believe I am the only person who
knows that ..."
Robin pushed an armchair at his companion.
“ Sit down and tell me about it," he com-
manded.
The boy dropped into the chair.
“It was after I had been only a few months
with him," he began, “shortly after I was dis-
charged from the army with that lung wound
of mine. We were driving back in the car from
some munition works near Ealing, and the chauf-
feur took a wrong turning near Wormwood
Scrubs and got into a maze of dirty streets round
there ..."
“I know," commented Robin, “Notting Dale,
they call it ..."
“H. P. wasn't noticing much," Wright went
on," as he was dictating letters to me, - we used
to do a lot of work in the Rolls-Royce in those
rush days, - but, directly he noticed that the
chauffeur was uncertain of the road, he shoved
his head out of the window and put him right at
once. I suppose I seemed surprised at his know.


144
THE YELLOW STREAK
ing his way about those parts, for he laughed at
me and said: 'I was born and brought up down
here, Bruce, in a little greengrocer's shop just off
the Latimer Road.' I said nothing because I didn't
want to interrupt his train of thought. He had
never talked to me or Jeekes or any of us like
that before.
“By Gad,' he went on, 'how the smell of the
place brings back those days to me— the smell
of decayed fruit, of stale fish, of dirt! Why, it
seems like yesterday that Victor Marbran and I
used to drive round uncle's cart with vegetables
and coal. What a life to escape from, Bruce, my
boy! Gad, you can count yourself lucky!'
“ He was like a man talking to himself. I asked
him how he had broken away from it all. At that
he laughed, a bitter, hard sort of laugh. “By
having the guts to break away from it, boy,' he
said. “It was I who made Victor Marbran come
away with me. We worked our passages out to
the Cape and made our way up-country to Mata-
beleland. That was in the early days of Rhodes
and Barney Barnato — long before I went to
Canada. I made Victor's fortune for him and
mine as well. But I made more than Victor and
he never forgave me. He'd do me a bad turn if he
could ...


A SHEET OF BLUE PAPER 145
« Then he broke off short and went on with his
dictating ..."
“ Did he ever come back to this phase of his
life?"
“ Only when we got out of the car that morn-
ing. He said to me: "Forget what I told you to-
day, young fellow. Never rake up a man's past!'
And he never mentioned the subject again. Of
course, I didn't either ..."
Stretched full length in his chair, his eyes fixed
on the ceiling, Robin remained lost in thought.
“The conversation came back to me to-day,"
said the boy, “when I read of Parrish's death.
And I wondered ..."
« Well?"
“ Whether the secret of his death may not be
found somewhere in his adventurous past. You
see he said that Victor Marbran was an en-
emy. Then there was something else. I never told
you — when you took all that trouble to get me
another job after Parrish had sacked me - the
exact reason for my dismissal. You never asked
me either. That was decent of you, Robin ..."
“I liked you, Bruce,” said Robin shortly.
“Well, I'll tell you now," he said. “When I
joined H. P.'s staff after I got out of the Army,
I was put under old Jeekes, of course, to learn
the work. One of the first injunctions he gave me


146 THE YELLOW STREAK
was with regard to Mr. Parrish's letters. I suppose
you know more or less how secretaries of a big
business man like Hartley Parrish work. They
open all letters, lay the important ones before the
big man for him to deal with personally, make a
digest of the others or deal with them direct ..."
Robin nodded.
“ Well,” the boy resumed, “ the first thing old
Jeekes told me was that letters arriving in a blue
envelope and marked 'Personal were never to be
opened ..."
“In a blue envelope?" echoed Robin quickly.
“ Yes, a particular kind of blue — a sort of
slatey-blue — Jeekes showed me one as a guide.
Well, these letters were to be handed to Mr. Par-
rish unopened."
Robin had stood up.
“ That's odd,” he said, diving in his pocket.
“I say, hold on a bit,” protested the boy," this
is really rather important what I am telling you.
I'll never finish if you keep on interrupting.”
« Sorry, Bruce," said Robin, and sat down
again.
But he began to play restlessly with his cigar-
ette-case which he had drawn from his pocket.
“ Well, of course,” Bruce resumed, “I wasn't
much of a private secretary really, and one day
I forgot all about this injunction. Some days old


A SHEET OF BLUE PAPER 147
H. P. got as many as three hundred letters. I
was alone at Harkings with him, I remember,
Jeekes was up at Sheffield and the other secreta-
ries were away ill or something, and in the rush of
dealing with this enormous mail I slit one of these
blue envelopes open with the rest. I discovered
what I had done only after I had got all the let-
ters sorted out, this one with the rest. So I went
straight to old H. P. and told him. By Jove!”
“What happened?” said Robin.
“He got into the most paralytic rage,” said
Bruce. “I have never seen a man in such an ab-
solute frenzy of passion. He went right off the
hooks, just like that! He fairly put the wind up
me. For a minute I thought he was going to kill
me. He snatched the letter out of my hand, called
me every name under the sun, and finally
shouted: “You're fired, d’ye hear? I won't employ
men who disobey my orders! Get out of this be-
fore I do you a mischief!' I went straight off. And
I never saw him again ..."
Robin Greve looked very serious. But his face
displayed no emotion as he asked:
“And what was in the letter for him to make
such a fuss about?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
“ That was the extraordinary part of it. The


148 THE YELLOW STREAK
letter was perfectly harmless. It was an ordinary
business letter from a firm in Holland ..."
“ In Holland?” cried Greve. “ Did you say in
Holland? Tell me the name! No, wait, see if I
can remember. "Van' something - Speck' or
"Spike'..."
“I remember the name perfectly," answered
Bruce, rather puzzled by the other's sudden out-
burst; “ it was Van der Spyck and Co. of Rotter-
dam. We had a good deal of correspondence with
them ..."
Robin Greve had opened his cigarette-case and
drawn from it a creased square of blue paper
folded twice across. Unfolding it, he held up the
sheet he had found in the library at Harkings.
“Is that the paper those letters were written
on?” he asked.
Bruce took the sheet from him. He held it up
to the light.
“Why, yes," came the prompt answer. “I'd
know it in a minute. Look, it's the same water-
mark. 'Egmont.' Where did you get hold of it?”
“Bruce," said Robin gravely, without answer-
ing the question,"we're getting into deep water,
boy!"


CHAPTER XV
SHADOWS
ROBERT GREVE stood for an instant in silence by
the window of his rooms. His fingers hammered
out a tattoo on the pane. His eyes were fixed on
the windows of the chambers across the court.
But they did not take in the pleasant prospect of
the tall, ivy-framed casements in their mellow set-
ting of warm red brick. He was trying to fix a
mental photograph of a letter — typewritten on
paper of dark slatey blue — which he had seen on
Hartley Parrish's desk in the library at Harkings
on the previous afternoon.
Prompted by Bruce Wright, he could now re-
call the heading clearly. “ ELIAS VAN DER SPYCK
& Co., GENERAL IMPORTERS, ROTTERDAM,” stood
printed before his eyes as plainly as though he
still held the typewritten sheet in front of him.
But the mind plays curious tricks. Robin's brain
had registered the name; yet it recorded no im-
pression of the contents of the letter. Beyond the
fact that it dealt in plain commercial fashion
with some shipments or other, he could recall no
particular whatever of it.
“ But where did you get hold of this sheet of
NERA
ORI
TTERD


150 THE YELLOW STREAK
paper?” Bruce Wright's voice broke in impa-
tiently behind him. “ I'm most frightfully inter-
ested to know ..."
“Found it on the floor beside Parrish's body,"
answered Robin briefly. “There was a letter, too,
on the same paper ..."
“By Gad!” exclaimed the boy eagerly, “have
you got that too?”
Robin shook his head.
“It was only your story that made me think of
it. I had the letter. But I left it where I found it
-on Parrish's desk in the library ..."
“ But you read it ... you know what was in
it? »
Robin shrugged his shoulders.
“It was a perfectly straightforward business
letter ... something about steel shipments ...
I don't remember any more ..."
“A straightforward business letter," com-
mented the boy. “Like the letter I read, eh? ..."
“ Tell me, Bruce,” said Robin, after a moment's
silence, “during the time you were with Hartley
Parrish, I suppose these blue letters came pretty
often?"
Young Wright wrinkled his brow in thought.
“It's rather difficult to say. You see, there were
three of us besides old Jeekes, and, of course,
these letters might have come without my know-


SHADOWS
151
ing anything about it. But during the seven
months I worked with H. P. I suppose about half
a dozen of these letters passed through my hands.
They used to worry H. P., you know, Robin ..."
“Worry him?” exclaimed Robin sharply;
“how do you mean?”
“ Well,” said Bruce," Parrish was a very easy-
going fellow, you know. He worked every one —
himself included — like the devil, of course. But
he was hardly ever nervy or grumpy. And so I
was a bit surprised to find after I had been
with him for a time-- that every now and then he
sort of shrivelled up. He used to look ... well,
careworn and ... and haggard. And at these
times he was pretty short with all of us. It was
such an extraordinary change from his usual
cheery, optimistic self that sometimes I suspected
him of dope or some horror like that ..."
Robin shook his head. He had a sudden vision
of Hartley Parrish, one of his long, black Parta-
gas thrust at an aggressive angle from a corner of
his mouth, virile, battling, strong.
“Oh, no,” he said, “not dope ..."
“ No, no, I know," the boy went on quickly. “It
wasn't dope. It was fear ..."
Robin swung round from the window.
“Fear? Fear of what?"
The boy cast a frightened glance over his


152 THE YELLOW STREAK
SU
shoulder rather as if he fancied he might be over-
heard.
“Of those letters,” he replied. “I am sure it
was that. I watched him and ... and I know.
Every time he got one of those letters in the
bluish envelopes, these curious fits of gloom came
over him. Robin ..."
“ What, Bruce?”
“I think he was being blackmailed!”
The barrister nodded thoughtfully.
“Don't you agree?" ..
The boy awaited his answer eagerly.
“ Something very like that,” replied the other.
Then suddenly he smashed his fist into the
open palm of his other hand.
“But he wouldn't have taken it lying down!”
he cried. “ Hartley Parrish was a fighter, Bruce.
Did you ever know a man who could best him?
No, no, it won't fit! Besides ..."
He broke off and thought for an instant.
“We must get that letter from Harkings,” he
said presently. “Jeekes will have it. We can do
nothing until ..."
His voice died away. Bruce, sunk in one of the
big leather armchairs, was astonished to see him
slip quickly away from the window and ensconce
himself behind one of the chintz curtains.
“Here, Bruce," Robin called softly across the


SHADOWS
153
room. “ Just come here. But take care not to
show yourself. Look out, keep behind the curtain
and here . . . peep out through this chink!”
Young Wright peered through a narrow slit
between the curtain and the window-frame. In
the far corner of the courtyard beneath the win-
dows, where a short round iron post marked a nar-
row passage leading to the adjoining court, a man
was standing. He wore a shabby suit and a blue
handkerchief knotted about his neck served him
as a substitute for the more conventional collar
and tie. His body was more than half concealed
by the side of the house along which the passage
ran. But his face was clearly distinguishable —
a peaky, thin face, the upper part in the shadow
of the peak of a discoloured tweed cap.
“He's been there on and off all the time we've
been talking,” said Robin. “I wasn't sure at first.
But now I'm certain. He's watching these win.
dows! Look!”
Briskly the watcher's head was withdrawn to
emerge again, slowly and cautiously, in a little
while.
“But who is he? What does he want?" asked
Bruce.
“I haven't an idea," retorted Robin Greve.
“But I could guess. Tell me, Bruce,” he went on,
stepping back from the window and motioning


154
THE YELLOW STREAK
the boy to do the same,“ did you notice anybody
following you when you came here?”
Bruce shook his head.
“I'm pretty sure nobody did. You see, I came
in from the Strand, down Middle Temple Lane.
Once service has started at Temple Church
there's not a mouse stirring in the Inn till the
church is out. I think I should have noticed
if any one had followed me up to your cham-
bers ..."
Robin set his chin squarely.
“ Then he came after me!” he said. “Bruce,
you'll have to go to Harkings and get that let-
ter!”
“By all means," answered the boy. “But, I
say, they won't much like me butting in, will
they?"
“ You'll have to say you came down to offer
your sympathy, ... volunteer your services ...
oh, anything. But you must get that letter! Do
you understand, Bruce? You must get that let-
ter — if you have to steal it!”
The boy gave a long whistle.
« That's rather a tall order, isn't it?” he said.
Robin nodded. His face was very grave.
“ Yes," he said presently, “I suppose it is. But
there is something ... something horrible be-
hind this case, Bruce, something dark and ...


SHADOWS
155
and mysterious. And I mean to get to the bottom
of it. With your help. Or alone!”
Bruce put his hand impulsively on the other's
arm.
“You can count on me, you know," he said.
“But don't you think ..."
He broke off shyly.
« What?"
“Don't you think you'd better tell me what you
know. And what you suspect!”
Robin hesitated.
“ Yes,” he said, “ that's fair. I suppose I ought.
But there's not much to tell, Bruce. Just before
Hartley Parrish was found dead, I asked Miss
Trevert to marry me. I was too late. She was al-
ready engaged to Hartley Parrish. I was horri-
fied . .. I know some things about Parrish ...
we had words and I went off. Five minutes later
Miss Trevert went to fetch Parrish in to tea and
heard a shot behind the locked door of the li-
brary. Horace Trevert got in through the win-
dow and found Parrish dead. Every one down at
Harkings believes that I went in and threatened
Parrish so that he committed suicide ..."
“Whom do you mean by every one?”
Robin laughed drily. “Mary Trevert, her
mother, Horace Trevert ..."
“The police, too?"


SHADOWS
157
force, in other words, a struggle. Miss Trevert
heard no scuffling. No, I've thought of that...
it won't do ..."
“Have you any suspicion of who the murderer
might be?”
Robin shook his head decidedly.
“Not a shadow of an idea,” he affirmed posi-
tively. “But I have a notion that we shall find a
clue in this letter which, like a blithering fool, I
left on Parrish's desk. It's the first glimmer of
hope I've seen yet ..."
Bruce Wright squared his shoulders and threw
his head back.
“I'll get it for you,” he said.
“Good boy,” said Robin. “But, Bruce," he
went on, “you'll have to go carefully. My name
is mud in that house. You mustn't say you come
from me. And if you ask boldly for the letter,
they won't give it to you. Jeekes might, if he's
there and you approach him cautiously. But, for
Heaven's sake, don't try any diplomacy on Man.
derton ... that's the Scotland Yard man. He's
as wary as a fox and sharp as needles.”
Bruce Wright buttoned up his coat with an air
of finality.
“Leave it to me," he said, “I know Hark-
ings like my pocket. Besides I've got a friend
there ..."


158 THE YELLOW STREAK
“ Who might that be?” queried the barrister.
“Bude," answered the boy and laid a finger on
his lips.
“But,” he pursued, jerking his head in the di-
rection of the window, “what are we going to do
about him out there?”
Robin laughed.
“ Him?” he said. “Oh, I'm going to take him
out for an airing!”.
Robin stepped out into the hall. He returned
wearing his hat and overcoat. In his hand were
two yale keys strung on a wisp of pink tape.
“ Listen, Bruce," he said. “ Give me ten min.
utes' start to get rid of this jackal. Then clear
out. There's a train to Stevenish at 3.23. If you
get on the Underground at the Temple you ought
to be able to make it easily. Here are the keys of
the chambers. I can put you up here to-night if
you like. I'll expect you when I see you ...
with that letter. Savvy?”
The boy stood up.
“ You'll have that letter to-night,” he an-
swered. “But in the meantime," — he waved the
blue sheet with its mysterious slots at Robin, -
6 what do you make of this?"
Robin took the sheet of paper from him and re-
placed it in his cigarette-case.


SHADOWS
159
“ Perhaps, when we have the letter,” he replied,
“I shall be able to answer that question!”
Then he lit a cigarette, gave the boy his hand,
and a minute later Bruce Wright, watching
through the chink of the curtain from the win-
dow of Robin Greve's chambers, saw a lanky form
shuffle across the court and follow Robin round
the angle of the house.
Robin strode quickly through the maze of nar-
row passages and tranquil, echoing courts into
the Sabbath stillness of the Strand. An occasion-
al halt at a shop-window was sufficient to assure
him that the watcher of the Temple was still on
his heels. The man, he was interested to see,
played his part very unobtrusively, shambling
along in nonchalant fashion, mostly hugging the
sides of the houses, ready to dart out of sight into
a doorway or down a side turning, should he by
any mischance arrive too close on the heels of his
quarry.
As he walked along, Robin turned over in
his mind the best means for getting rid of his
shadow. Should he dive into a Tube station and
plunge headlong down the steps? He rejected
this idea as calculated to let the tracker know
that his presence was suspected. Then he re-
viewed in his mind the various establishments he
knew of in London with double entrances, think-


160 THE YELLOW STREAK
ing that he might slip in by the one entrance and
emerge by the other.
In Pall Mall he came upon Tony Grandell, whom
he had last seen playing bridge in the company
dugout on the Flesquières Ridge. Then he had
been in “ battle order,” camouflaged as a private
soldier, as officers were ordered to go over the
top in the latter phases of the war. Now he was
resplendent in what the invitation cards call
“ Morning Dress "crowned by what must certain-
ly have been the most relucent top-hat in London.
“Hullo, hullo, hullo!” cried Tony, on catching
sight of him; “stand to your kits and so forth!
And how is my merry company commander? Rob-
in, dear, come and relieve the medieval gloom of
lunch with my aunt at Mart's!”
He linked his arm affectionately in Robin's.
Mart's! Robin's brain snatched at the word.
Mart's! most respectable of “family hotels,"
wedged in between two quiet streets off Piccadilly
with an entrance from both. If ever a man wanted
to dodge a sleuth, especially a grimy tatterdemal-
ion like the one sidling up Pall Mall behind
them ...
“ Tony, old son,” said Robin, “I won't lunch
with you even to set the board in a roar at your
aunt's luncheon-party. But I'll walk up to Mart's
with you, for I'm going there myself ..."


SHADOWS
161
They entered Mart's together and parted in the
vestibule, where Tony gravely informed his “dear
old scream” that he must fly to his "avuncular
luncheon.” Robin walked quickly through the
hotel and left by the other entrance. The street
was almost deserted. Of the man with the dingy
neckerchief there was no sign. Robin hurried into
Piccadilly and hopped on a 'bus which put him
down at his club facing the Green Park.
He had a late lunch there and afterwards took
a taxi back to the Temple. The daylight was fail.
ing as he crossed the courtyard in front of his
chambers. In the centre the smoke-blackened
plane-tree throned it in unchallenged solitude.
But, as Robin's footsteps echoed across the flags,
something more substantial than a shadow
seemed to melt into the gathering dusk in the
corner where the narrow passage ran.
Robin stopped to listen at the entrance to his
chambers. As he stood there he heard a heavy
tread on the stone steps within. He turned to face
a solidly built swarthy-looking man who emerged
from the building.
· He favoured Robin with a leisurely, searching
stare, then strode heavily across the courtyard
to the little passage where he disappeared from
view.
Robin looked after him. The man was a


162 THE YELLOW STREAK
stranger: the occupants of the other chambers
were all known to him. With a thoughtful expres-
sion on his face Robin entered the house and
mounted to his rooms.


CHAPTER XVI
THE INTRUDER
“D !” exclaimed Bruce Wright.
He stood in the great porch at Harkings, his
finger on the electric bell. No sound came in re-
sponse to the pressure, nor any one to open the
door. Thus he had stood for fully ten minutes
listening in vain for any sound within the house.
All was still as death. He began to think that the
bell was out of order. He had forgotten Hartley
Parrish's insistence on quiet. All bells at Hark
ings rang, discreetly muted, in the servants' hall.
He stepped out of the porch on to the drive. The
weather had improved and, under a freshening
wind, the country was drying up. As he reached
the hard gravel, he heard footsteps. Bude ap-
peared, his collar turned up, his swallow-tails
floating in the wind.
“Now, be off with you!” he cried as soon as he
caught sight of the trim figure in the grey over-
coat;“ how many more of ye have I to tell there's
nothing for you to get here! Go on, get out be-
fore I put the dog on you!”
He waved an imperious hand at Bruce.


164 ' THE YELLOW STREAK
“Hullo, Bude," said the boy, “you've grown
very inhospitable all of a sudden!”
“God bless my soul if it isn't young Mr.
Wright!” exclaimed the butler. “ And I thought
it was another of those dratted reporters. It's
been ring, ring, ring the whole blessed morning,
sir, you can believe me, as if they owned the place,
wanting to interview me and Mr. Jeekes and Miss
Trevert and the Lord knows who else. Lot of
interfering busybodies, I call 'em! I'd shut up all
noospapers by law if I had my way ..."
“ Is Mr. Jeekes here, Bude?" asked Bruce.
“He's gone off to London in the car, sir ...
But won't you come in, Mr. Wright? If you
wouldn't mind coming in by the side door. I have
to keep the front door closed to shut them scrib-
bling fellows out. One of them had the face to
ask me to let him into the library to take a photo-
graph ..."
He led the way round the side of the house to
the glass door in the library corridor.
“This is a sad business, Bude!” said Bruce.
“Ah, indeed, it is, sir,” he sighed. “He had his
faults had Mr. Parrish, as well you know, Mr.
Wright. But he was an open-handed gentleman,
that I will say, and we'll all miss him at Hark-
ings ..."


THE INTRUDER
165
They were now in the corridor. Bude jerked a
thumb over his shoulder.
“It was in there they found him," he said in a
low voice,“ with a hole plumb over the heart."
His voice sank to a whisper. “There's blood on
the carpet!” he added impressively.
"I should like just to take a peep at the room,
Bude," ventured the boy, casting a sidelong
glance at the butler.
“Can't be done, sir," said Bude, shaking his
head; “ orders of Detective-Inspector Manderton.
The police is very strict, Mr. Wright, sir!”
“There seems to be no one around just now,
Bude,” the young man wheedled. “There can't
be any harm in my just going in for a sec-
ond? ..."
“Go in you should, Mr. Wright, sir," said the
butler genially, “if I had my way. But the door's
locked. And, what's more, the police have the
key."
“Is the detective anywhere about?” asked
Bruce.
“ No, sir,” answered Bude. “He's gone off to
town, too! And he don't expect to be back before
the inquest. That's for Toosday!”
“But isn't there another key anywhere?” per-
sisted the boy.
“ No, sir,” said Bude positively, “there isn't


THE INTRUDER
167
orderly array. Outside, the short winter after-
noon was drawing in fast, and the light was fail-
ing. Dusky shadows within the library made it
difficult to distinguish objects clearly.
A voice close at hand cried out sharply:
“Mr. Bude! Mr. Bu-u-ude!”
« They're calling me!” whispered the butler in
his ear with a tug at his sleeve;" come away, sir!”
But Bruce shook him off. He heard the man's
heavy tread on the gravel, then a door slam.
How dark the room was growing, to be sure!
Strain his eyes as he might, he could not get a
clear view of the contents of the letter-trays on
the desk. But their high backs hid their contents
from his eyes. Even when he hoisted himself on
to the window-sill he could not get a better view.
He dropped back on to the gravel path and
listened. The wind soughed sadly in the bare
tree-tops, somewhere in the distance a dog barked
hoarsely, insistently; otherwise not a sound was
to be heard. He cast a cautious glance round the
side of the house. The glass door was shut; the
lamp in the corridor had not been lit.
Hoisting himself up to the window-sill again,
he crooked one knee on the rough edge and thrust-
ing one arm through the broken pane of glass, un-
bolted the window. Then, steadying himself with
one hand, with the other he very gently pushed


168 THE YELLOW STREAK
up the window, threw his legs across the sill, and
dropped into the library. Very deliberately, he
turned and pushed the window softly down be-
hind him.
Some unconscious prompting, perhaps an un-
familiar surface beneath his feet, made him look
down. Where his feet rested on the mole-grey
carpet a wide dark patch stood out from the deli-
cate shade of the rug. For a moment a spasm of
physical nausea caught him.
“How beastly!” he whispered to himself and
took a step towards the desk. '
Hartley Parrish's desk was arranged just as
he always remembered it to have been. All the
letter-trays save one were empty. In that was a
little pile of papers held down by a massive mar-
ble paper-weight. Quickly he stepped round the
desk.
He had put out his hand to lift the weight when
there was a gentle rattle at the door.
Bruce Wright wheeled instantly round, back to
the desk, to face the door, which, in the gather-
ing dusk, was now but a squarer patch of dark-
ness among the shadows at the far end of the li-
brary. He stood absolutely still, rooted to the
spot, his heart thumping so fast that, in that
silent room, he could hear the rapid beats.
Some one was unlocking the library door. As


THE INTRUDER
169
realization came to the boy, he tiptoed rapidly
round the desk, the sound of his feet muffled by
the heavy pile carpet, and reached the window.
There was a click as the lock of the door was shot
back. Without further hesitation Bruce stepped
behind the long curtains which fell from the top
of the window to the floor.
The curtains, of some heavy grey material,
were quite opaque. Bruce realized, with a sink-
ing heart, that he must depend on his ears to dis-
cover the identity of this mysterious interloper.
He dared not look out from his hiding-place --- at
least not until he could be sure that the newcomer
had his back to the window. He remained, rigid
and vigilant, straining his ears to catch the
slightest sound, scarcely daring to breathe.
He heard the door open, heard it softly close
again. Then ... silence. Not another sound.
The boy remembered the heavy pile carpet and
cursed his luck. He would have to risk a peep
round the curtains. But not yet! He must
wait ...
A very slight rustling, a faint prolonged rust-
ling, caught his ear. It came nearer, then stopped.
There was a little rattling noise from somewhere
close at hand, a small clinking sound.
Then silence fell again.
The wind whooshed sadly round the house, the


170 THE YELLOW STREAK
window clattered dismally in its frame, the cur-
tains tugged fretfully before the cold breeze
which blew in at the broken pane. But the silence
in the room was absolute.
It began to oppress the boy. It frightened him.
He felt an uncontrollable desire to look out into
the room and establish the identity of the myste-
rious entrant. He glided his hand towards the
window-frame in the hope that he might find a
chink between curtain and wall through which
he might risk a peep into the room. But the cur-
tain was fastened to the wall.
The room was almost entirely dark now. Only
behind him was a patch of grey light where the
lowering evening sky was framed in the window.
He began to draw the curtain very slowly towards
him, at the same time leaning to the right. Very
cautiously he applied one eye to the edge of the
curtain.
As he did so, a bright light struck him full in
the face. It streamed full from a lamp on the
desk and almost blinded him. It was a reading.
lamp and the bulb had been turned up so as to
throw a beam on the curtain behind which the
boy was sheltering.
Behind the desk, straining back in terror, stood
a slim, girlish figure. The details of her dress
were lost in the gathering shadows, but her face


THE INTRUDER
171
stood out in the gloom, a pale oval. Bruce could
see the dark line made by the lashes on her cheek.
At the sight of her, he stepped boldly forth
from his hiding-place, shielding his eyes from the
light with his hand.
“It's Bruce Wright, Miss Trevert,” he said,
“ don't you remember me?"


CHAPTER XVII
A FRESH CLUE
“OH!” cried the girl, “ you frightened me! You
frightened me! What do you want here ... in
this horrible room?"
She was trembling. One slim hand plucked ner.
vously at her dress. Her breath came and went
quickly.
“I saw the curtain move. I thought it was the
wind at first. But then I saw the outline of your
fingers. And I imagined it was he ... come
back ..."
“Miss Trevert,” said the boy abashed, “I must
have frightened you terribly. I had no idea it was
you!"
“But why are you hiding here? How did you
get in? What do you want in this house?”
She spoke quickly, nervously. Some papers she
held in her hand shook with her emotion. Bruce
Wright stepped to the desk and turned the bulb
of the reading-lamp down into its normal posi-
tion.
“I must apologize most sincerely for the fright
I gave you,” he said. “But, believe me, Miss Tre-
vert, I had no idea that anybody could gain ac.


A FRESH CLUE
173
cess to this room. I climbed in through the win-
dow. Bude told me that the police had taken
away the key ..."
The girl made an impatient gesture.
“But why have you come here?” she said.
“What do you want? "
The boy measured her with a narrow glance.
He was young, but he was shrewd. He saw her
frank eyes, her candid, open mien, and he took
a rapid decision.
“I think I have come,” he answered slowly,
“for the same purpose as yourself! ”
And he looked at the papers in her hand.
“I used to be Mr. Parrish's secretary, you
know," he said.
The girl sighed — a little fluttering sigh-
and looked earnestly at him.
“I remember,” she said. “Hartley liked you.
He was sorry that he sent you away. He often
spoke of you to me. But why have you come
back? What do you mean by saying you have
come for the same purpose as myself?”
Bruce Wright looked at the array of letter-
trays. The marble paper-weight had been dis-
placed. The tray in which it had lain was empty.
He looked at the sheaf of papers in the girl's
hand.
“ I wanted to see,” he replied, “whether there


174 THE YELLOW STREAK
was anything here ... on his desk ... which
would explain the mystery of his death ..."
The girl spread out the papers in her hand on
the big blotter.
She laid the papers out in a row and leant for-
ward, her white arms resting on the desk. From
the other side of the desk the boy leant eagerly
forward and scanned the line of papers.
At the first glimpse his face fell. The girl, eye-
ing him closely, marked the change which came
over his features.
There were seven papers of various kinds, both
printed and written, and they were all on white
paper.
The boy shook his head and swept the papers
together into a heap.
“It's not there?” queried the girl eagerly.
“ No!” said Bruce absent-mindedly, glancing
round the desk.
“ What isn't? ” flashed back the girl.
Bruce Wright felt his face redden with vexa-
tion. What sort of a confidential emissary was
he to fall into a simple trap like this?
The girl smiled rather wanly.
“Now I know what you meant by saying you
had come for the same purpose as myself,” she
said. “I suppose we both thought we might find
something, a letter, perhaps, which would ex-


A FRESH CLUE
175
plain why Mr. Parrish did this dreadful thing,
something to relieve this awful uncertainty about
... about his motive. Well, I've searched the
desk . . . and there's nothing! Nothing but just
these prospectuses and receipts which were in the
letter-tray here. They must have come by the
post yesterday morning. And there's nothing of
any importance in the drawers ... only house-
hold receipts and the wages book and a few odd
things like that! You can see for yourself ..."
The lower part of the desk consisted of three
drawers flanked on either side by cupboards.
Mary Trevert pulled out the drawers and opened
the cupboards. Two of the drawers were entirely
empty and one of the cupboards contained noth-
ing but a stack of cigar boxes. One drawer held
various papers appertaining to the house. There
was no sign of any letter written on the slatey.
blue paper.
The boy looked very hard at Mary.
“ You say there was nothing in the letter-tray
but these papers here?” he asked.
“Nothing but these," replied the girl.
“You didn't notice any official-looking letter
on bluish paper?” he ventured to ask.
“No," answered the girl. “I found nothing but
these."
The boy thought for a moment.


176 THE YELLOW STREAK
“Do you know,” he asked, “whether the police
or anybody have been through the desk?"
“I don't know at all,” said Mary, smoothing
back a lock of hair from her temple; “ I daresay
Mr. Jeekes had a look round, as he had a meeting
with Mr. Parrish's lawyer in town this after-
noon!"
She had lost all trace of her fright and was now
quite calm and collected.
“Do you know for certain whether Mr. Jeekes
was in here?” asked Bruce.
“Oh, yes. The first thing he did on arriving
last night was to go to the library.”
“I suppose Jeekes is coming back here to-
night?”
No, she told him. Mr. Jeekes did not expect to
return to Harkings until the inquest on Tuesday.
Bruce Wright picked up his hat.
“I must apologize again, Miss Trevert,” he
said, “ for making such an unconventional en-
trance and giving you such a fright. But I felt
I could not rest until I had investigated matters
for myself. I would have presented myself in the
ordinary way, but, as I told you, Bude told me
the police had locked up the room and taken away
the key ..."
Mary Trevert smiled forgivingly.
“ So they did," she said. “But Jay – Mr. Par.
"Oom
awi


178 THE YELLOW STREAK
Mary Trevert raised her eyes to his.
“Will you do something for me?” she said.
« Tell Mr. Greve not to trust Manderton. He will
know whom I mean. Tell him to be on his guard
against that man. Say he means mischief. Tell
him, above all things, to be careful. Make him go
away ... go abroad until this thing has blown
over ..."
She spoke with intense earnestness, her dark
eyes fixed on Bruce Wright's face.
“But promise me you won't say this comes
from me! Do you understand? There are rea-
sons, very strong reasons, for this. Will you
promise?”
« Of course!”
She took Bruce's outstretched hand.
“I promise,” he said.
“ You mustn't go without tea," said the girl.
“ Besides,” she glanced at a little platinum
watch on her wrist, — “there's not another train
until six. There is no need for you to start yet.
I don't like being left alone. Mother has one of
her headaches, and Horace and Dr. Romain have
gone to Stevenish. Come up to my sitting-room!"
She led the way out of the library, locking the
door behind them, and together they went up to
the Chinese boudoir where tea was laid on a low
table before a bright fire. In the dainty room


180
THE YELLOW STREAK
this thing was no longer on the pistol. And Jay
says it's not to be found! ..."
“That's rather strange!" commented Bruce.
“But what was this steel contraption for, do you
know? Was it a patent sight or something?"
“ Jay doesn't know," answered the girl.
“Would you mind if I spoke to Jay myself? !!
asked the young man.
In reply the girl touched the bell beside the
fireplace. Bude answered the summons and was
despatched to find Jay. He appeared in due
course, a tall, dark, sleek young man wearing a
swallow-tail coat and striped trousers.
“How are you, Jay?” said Bruce affably.
“ Very well, thank you, sir,” replied the valet.
“Miss Trevert was telling me about this appli-
ance which you say Mr. Parrish had on his auto-
matic. Could you describe it to me?”
« Well, sir," answered the man rather halt-
ingly, “it was a little sort of cup made of steel
or gun-metal fitting closely over the barrel, .."
“And you don't know what it was for?”
“No, sir!”
“Was it a sight, do you think?"
“I can't say, I'm sure, sir!”
“ You know what a sight looks like, I suppose.
Was there a bead on it or anything like it?"
“I can't say, I'ra sure, sir. I never gave any


A FRESH CLUE)
181
particular heed to it. I used to see the automatic
lying in the drawer of the wardrobe in Mr. Par.
rish's room in a wash-leather case. I noticed this
steel appliance, sir, because the case wouldn't
shut over the pistol with it on and the butt used
to stick out."
“When did you last notice Mr. Parrish's auto-
matic?"
“ It would be Thursday or Friday, sir. I went to
that drawer to get Mr. Parrish an old stock to go
riding in as some new ones he had bought were
stiff and hurt him.”
“ And this steel cup was on the pistol then?"
« Oh, yes, sir!"
“And you say it was not on the pistol when
Mr. Parrish's body was found?”
“ No, sir!”
“ Are you sure of this?"
“ Yes, sir. I was one of the first in the room,
and I saw the pistol in Mr. Parrish's hand, and
there was no sign of the cup, sir. So I've had a
good look among his things and I can't find it
anywhere!”
Bruce Wright pondered a minute.
“ Try and think, Jay,” he said, “if you can't
remember anything more about this steel cup, as
you call it. Where did Mr. Parrish buy it?"


182
THE YELLOW STREAK
“ Can't say, I'm sure, sir. He had it before ever
I took service with him!”
Jay put his hand to his forehead for an instant.
“ Now I come to think of it,” he said, “there
was the name of the shop or maker on it, stamped
on the steel. "Maxim,' that was the name, now
I put my mind back, with a number ..."
“Maxim?" echoed Bruce Wright. “Did you
say Maxim?"
“ Yes, sir! That was the name!” replied the
valet impassively.
“By Jove!” said the boy half to himself. Then
he said aloud to Jay:
“ Did you tell the police about this?"
Jay looked somewhat uncomfortable.
“No, sir.”
“ Why not?”
Jay looked at Mary Trevert.
“Well, sir, I thought perhaps I'd better tell
Miss Trevert first. Bude thought so, too. That
there Manderton has made so much unpleasant-
ness in the house with his prying ways that I
said to myself, sir ..."
Bruce Wright looked at Mary.
“Would you mind if I asked Jay not to say
anything about this to anybody just for the pres-
ent?” he asked.
“ You hear what Mr. Wright says, Jay,” said


A FRESH CLUE
183
Mary. “I don't want you to say anything about
this matter just yet. Do you understand?"
“Yes, Miss. Will that be all, Miss ? "
“Yes, thank you, Jay!”
“ Thanks very much, Jay,” said the boy. “This
may be important. Mum's the word, though!”
"I quite understand, sir,” answered the valet
and left the room.
Hardly had the door closed on him than the
girl turned eagerly to Bruce.
“It is important?" she asked.
“It may be," was the guarded reply.
“Don't leave me in the dark like this," the girl
pleaded. “This horrible affair goes on growing
and growing, and at every step it seems more be-
wildering ... more ghastly. Tell me where it is
leading, Mr. Wright! I can't stand the suspense
much more!”
Her voice broke, and she turned her face away.
“You must be brave, Miss Trevert,” said the
boy, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Don't
ask me to tell you more now. Your friends are
working to get at the truth ..."
“The truth!” cried the girl. “God knows
where the truth will lead us!”
Bruce Wright hesitated a moment.
“I don't think you have any need to fear the
truth!” he said presently.


184 THE YELLOW STREAK
The girl took her handkerchief from her face
and looked at him with brimming eyes.
“You know more than you let me think you
did,” she said brokenly. “But you are a friend
of mine, aren't you?”
“ Yes," said Bruce, and added boldly:
“ And of his too!”
She did not speak again, but gave him her
hand. He clasped it and went out hurriedly to
catch his train back to London,


CHAPTER XVIII
THE SILENT SHOT
That faithful servitor of Fleet Street, the Law
Courts clock, had just finished striking seven. It
boomed out the hour, stroke by stroke, solemnly,
inexorably, like a grim old judge summing up and
driving home, point by point, an irrefutable
charge. The heavy strokes broke in upon the fit-
ful doze into which Robin Greve, stretched out in
an armchair in his living-room, had dropped.
He roused up with a start. There was the click
of a key in the lock of his front door. Bruce
Wright burst into the room.
The boy shut the door quickly and locked it. He
was rather pale and seemed perturbed. On seeing
Robin he jerked his head in the dirction of the
courtyard.
“I suppose you know they're still outside?”
he said.
Robin nodded nonchalantly.
“ There are three of them now," the boy went
on. “Robin, I don't like it. Something's going
to happen. You'll want to mind yourself . . . if
it's not too late already!”
He stepped across to the window and bending
down, peered cautiously round the curtain.


THE SILENT SHOT 187
to Robin's chair. “He may want you to think
that. But how can we tell how much he knows?”
Robin flicked the ash off his cigarette disdain-
fully.
“These promoted policemen make me tired,"
he said.
Bruce Wright shook his head quickly with a
little gesture of exasperation.
“You don't understand," he said. “There's
fresh evidence ..."
Robin Greve looked up with real interest in his
eyes. His bantering manner had vanished.
“ You've got that letter?” he asked eagerly.
Bruce shook his head.
“No, not that," he said. Then leaning forward
he added in a low voice:
“Have you ever heard of the Maxim silencer ? "
“I believe I have, vaguely," replied Robin.
“Isn't it something to do with a motor engine?”
“No," said Bruce. “It's an extraordinary in.
vention which absolutely suppresses the noise of
the discharge of a gun."
Robin shot a quick glance at the speaker.
“Go on," he said.
“It's a marvelous thing, really," the boy con-
tinued, warming to his theme. “A man at Havre
had one when I was at the base there, during the
war. It's a little cup-shaped steel fitting that goes


188 THE YELLOW STREAK
over the barrel. You can fire a rifle fitted with one
of these silencers in a small room and it makes
no more noise than a fairly loud sneeze ..."
6 Ah!”
Robin was listening intently now.
“Parrish had a Maxim silencer,” Bruce went
on impressively.
“Parrish had?”
“ It was fitted on his automatic pistol, the one
he had in his hand when they found him ..."
“ There was no attachment of any kind on the
gun Parrish was holding when he was discovered
yesterday afternoon," declared Robin positively;
“I can vouch for that. I was there almost im-
mediately after they found him. And if there had
been anything of the kind Horace Trevert would
certainly have mentioned it ..."
“I know. Jay, who came in soon after you, was
surprised to see that the silencer was not on
the pistol. And he made a point of looking for
it ..."
“But how do you know that Parrish had it on
the pistol? ..."
“Well, we don't know for certain. But we do
know that it was permanently fitted to his auto-
matic. Jay has often seen it. And if Parrish did
remove it, he didn't leave it lying around any


THE SILENT SHOT
189
where. Jay has looked all through his things
without finding it ..."
“When did Jay see it last?"
“On Thursday!”
“But are you sure that this is the same pistol
as the one which Jay has been in the habit of
seeing?"
“Jay is absolutely sure. He says that Parrish
only had the one automatic which he always kept
in the same drawer in his dressing-room ..."
Robin was silent for a moment. Very deliber-
ately he filled his pipe, lit it, and drew until it
burned comfortably. Then he said slowly:
“This means that Hartley Parrish was mur.
dered, Bruce, old man. All through I have been
puzzling my mind to reconcile the unquestionable
circumstance that two bullets were fired — I
told you of the bullet mark I found on the up-
right in the rosery — with the undoubted fact
that only one report was heard. We can therefore
presume, either that Hartley Parrish first fired
one shot from his pistol with the silencer fitted
and then removed the silencer and fired another
shot without it, thereby killing himself, or that
the second shot was fired by the person whose in-
terest it was to get rid of the silencer. There is no
possible or plausible reason why Parrish should
have fired first one shot with the silencer and then


THE SILENT SHOT
191
of the other. What it comes to is this, Mary
heard the shot fired that killed Parrish. Did she
hear the shot he fired at his murderer?”
“By Gad!” exclaimed Bruce Wright impres-
sively, “I believe you've got it, Robin! Parrish
fired at somebody at the window — a silent shot
- and the other fellow fired back the shot that
Mary Trevert heard, the shot that killed Parrish.
Isn't that the way you figure it out?".
“Not so fast, young man,” remarked Robin.
“ Let's first find out whether Mary actually heard
the muffled shot and, if so, when ... before or
after the loud report.”
He glanced across at the window and then at
Bruce.
“I suppose this discovery about the silencer is
responsible for the deputation waiting in the
courtyard,” he said drily.
“ The police don't know about it yet,” replied
Bruce;" at least they didn't when I left."
Robin shook his head dubiously.
“ If the servants know it, Manderton will worm
it out of them. Hasn't he cross-examined Jay?"
“ Yes," said Bruce. “But he got nothing out of
him about this. Manderton seems to have put
everybody's back up. He gets nothing out of the
servants ..."
“If Parrish had had this silencer for some time,


192 THE YELLOW STREAK
you may be sure that other people know about it.
These silencers must be pretty rare in England.
You see, an average person like myself didn't
know what it was. By the way, another point
which we haven't yet cleared up is this: suppos-
ing we are right in believing Parrish to have been
murdered, how do you explain the fact that the
bullet removed from his body fitted his pistol?”
“That's a puzzler, I must say!” said Bruce.
“ There's only one possible explanation, I
think,” Robin went on," and that is that Parrish
was shot by a pistol of exactly the same calibre
as his own. For the murderer to have killed Par-
rish with his own weapon would have been diffi-
cult without a struggle. But Miss Trevert heard
no struggle. For murderer and his victim to have
pistols of the same calibre argues a rather re-
markable coincidence, I grant you. But then life
is full of coincidences! We meet them every day
in the law. Though, I admit, this is a coincidence
which requires some explaining ..."
He fell into a brown study which Bruce inter-
rupted by suddenly remembering that he had had
no lunch.
For answer Robin pointed at the sideboard.
« There's a cloth in there," he said, “ also the
whisky, if my laundress has left any, and a si-
phon and there should be some claret - Mrs.


THE SILENT SHOT
193
Bragg doesn't care about red wine. Set the table,
and I'll take a root round in the kitchen and dig
up some tinned stuff.”
They supped off a tinned tongue and some pâté
de foie gras. Over their meal Bruce told Robin
of his adventure in the library at Harkings.
“ Jeekes must have collected that letter,"
Bruce said. “Before I came to you, I went to
Lincoln's Inn Fields to see if he was still at Bar-
dy's — Parrish's solicitor, you know. But the of-
fice was closed, and the place in darkness. I went
on to the Junior Pantheon, that's Jeekes's club,
but he wasn't in. He hadn't been there all day, the
porter told me. So I left a note asking him to ring
you up here ..."
“The case reeks of blackmail,” said Robin
thoughtfully,“ but I am wondering how much we
shall glean from this precious letter when we do
see it. I am glad you asked Jeekes to ring me up,
though. He should be able to tell us something
about these mysterious letters on the blue paper
that used to put Parrish in such a stew ...
Hullo, who can that be?”.
An electric bell trilled through the flat. It rang
once ... twice ... and then a third time, a
long, insistent peal.
“See who's there, will you, Bruce?” said
Robin.


194'
THE YELLOW STREAK
“Suppose it's the police ..." began the boy.
Robin shrugged his shoulders.
“ You can say I'm at home and ask them in," he
said.
He heard the heavy oaken door swing open, a
murmur of voices in the hall. The next moment
Detective-Inspector Manderton entered the sit-
ting-room,


CHAPTER XIX
MR. MANDERTON LAYS HIS CARDS
ON THE TABLE
THE detective's manner had undergone some
subtle change which Robin, watching him closely
as he came into the room, was quick to note. Mr.
Manderton made an effort to retain his old air
of rather patronizing swagger; but he seemed
less sure of himself than was his wont. In fact,
he appeared to be a little anxious.
He walked briskly into the sitting-room and
looked quickly from Bruce to Robin.
“Mr. Greve,” he said, “you can help me if you
will by answering a few questions ..."
With another glance at Bruce Wright he
added:
“... in private."
Bruce, obedient to a sign from Robin, said he
would ring up in the morning and prepared to
take his leave. Robin turned to the detective.
“ There are some of your men, I believe," he
said coldly, “watching this house. Would it be
asking too much to request that my friend here
might be permitted to return home unescorted?”
“He needn't worry," replied Manderton with


THE CARDS ON THE TABLE 197
“It's dry work talking,” he said. “Won't you
take a drink?”
“ Thanks, I don't drink. But I'll have a cigar
if I may. Thank you!”
The detective helped himself to a cheroot from
a box on the table and lit up. Then, affecting to
scan the end of his cigar with great attention, he
asked abruptly:
“ What do you know of the woman calling her-
self Madame de Malpas?”
Robin pursed up his lips rather disdainfully.
“ One of the late Mr. Parrish's lady friends,"
he replied. “I expect you know that!”
“Do you know where she lives? ” pursued the
detective, ignoring the implied question.
“She's dead.”
A flicker of interest appeared for an instant
in Mr. Manderton's keen eyes.
“You're sure of that?"
« Certainly,” answered Robin.
“Who told you?"
“Le Hagen — the solicitor, you know. He
acted for this Malpas woman on one or two oc-
casions."
“When did she die?"
“Six or seven months ago ..."
“ Did Jeekes know about it?"
“ Jeekes? Do you mean Parrish's secretary?


198 THE YELLOW STREAK
It's funny your asking that. As a matter of fact,
it was through Jeekes that I heard the lady was
dead. I was in Le Hagen's office one day when
Jeekes came in, and Le Hagen told me Jeekes had
come to pay in a cheque for the cost of the funeral
and the transport of the body to France."
“This was six or seven months ago, you say?
I take it, then, that any allowance that Parrish
was in the habit of making to this woman has
ceased?"
“I tell you the lady is dead!”
“ Then what would you say if I informed you
that Mr. Jeekes had declared that these payments
were still going on ..."
Robin shrugged his shoulders.
“ I should say he was lying ..."
“I agree. But why?”
“Whom did he tell this to?"
“Miss Trevert!”
“ Miss Trevert?"
Robin repeated the name in amazement.
“I don't understand," he said. “Why on earth
should Jeekes blacken his employer's character
to Miss Trevert? What conceivable motive could
he have had? Did she tell you this?”
"No," said Manderton; “I heard him tell her
myself."
“Do you mean to tell me," protested Robin,


THE CARDS ON THE TABLE 199
growing more and more puzzled, “ that Jeekes
told Miss Trevert this offensive and deliberate
die in your presence!”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Manderton slowly, “I
don't know about his saying this in my presence
exactly. But I heard him tell her for all that.
Walls have ears, you know -- particularly if the
door is ajar!”
He looked shrewdly at Robin, then dropped his
eyes to the floor.
“He also told her that Le Hagen and you were
in business relations ..."
Robin sat up at this.
“Ah!” he said shortly. “I see what you're get.
ting at now. Our friend has been trying to set
Miss Trevert against me, eh? But why? I don't
even know this man Jeekes except to have nodded
"Good-morning' to him a few times. Why on
earth should he of all men go out of his way
to slander me to Miss Trevert, to throw suspi-
cion ..."
He broke off short and looked at the detective.
Mr. Manderton caressed his big black mous-
tache.
“Yes," he repeated suavely, “you were saying
to cast suspicion'..."
The eyes of the two men met. Then the detec-


200 THE YELLOW STREAK
tive leaned back in his chair and, blowing a cloud
of smoke from his lips, said:
“Mr. Greve, you've been thinking ahead of me
on this case. What you've told me so far I've
checked. And you're right. Dead right. And
since you’re, in a manner of speaking, one of the
parties interested in getting things cleared up,
I'd like you to tell me just simply what idea
you've formed about it ..."
“Gladly," answered the barrister. “And to
start with let me tell you that the case stinks of
blackmail ..."
“Steady on," interposed the detective. “I
thought so, too, at first. I've been into all that.
Mr. Parrish made a clean break with the last of
his lady friends about two months since; and, as
far as our investigations go, there has beer no
blackmail in connection with any of his women
pals. Vine Street knows all about Master Parrish.
There were complaints about some of his little
parties up in town. But I don't believe there's
a woman in this case ..."
“I didn't say there was,” retorted Robin. “ The
blackmail is probably being levied from Holland.
A threat of violence was finally carried into ef-
fect on Saturday evening between 5 and 5.15 P.M.
by some one conversant with the lie of the land
at Harkings. This individual, armed with an


202 TH
THE YELLOW STREAK
harshly. “What's all this about blackmail being
levied from Holland?"
Then Robin Greve told him of the letters writ-
ten on the slatey-blue paper and of their effect
upon Parrish, and of the letter headed, “ Elias
van der Spyck & Co., General Importers, Rotter-
dam,” which had lain on the desk in the library
when Parrish's dead body had been found.
Manderton nodded gloomily.
“It was there right enough,” he remarked. “I
saw it. A letter about steel shipments and the
dockers' strike, wasn't it? As there seemed noth-
ing to it, I left it with the other papers for Jeekes,
the secretary chap. But what evidence is there
that this was blackmail?”
“ This,” said Robin, and showed the detective
the sheet of blue paper with its series of slits.
“ Manderton," he said, “ these letters written on
this blue paper were in code, I feel sure. Why
should not this be the key? You see it bears a
date- Nov. 25. May it not refer to that letter?
I found it by Parrish's body on the carpet in the li-
brary. I would have given it to you at Harkings,
but I shoved it in my pocket and forgot all about
it until I was in the train coming up to town this
morning."
Mr. Manderton took the sheet of paper, turned
it over, and held it up to the light. Then, without


THE CARDS ON THE TABLE 203
comment, he put it away in the pocket of his
jacket.
“If Parrish killed himself,” Robin went on ear-
nestly, “ that letter drove him to it. If, on the
other hand, he was murdered, may not that letter
have contained a warning?"
“I should prefer to suspend judgment until
we've seen the letter, Mr. Greve," said the detec-
tive bluntly. “We must get it from Jeekes. In
the meantime, what makes you think that the
murderer (to follow up your theory) was conver-
sant with the lay of the land at Harkings?”
“Because," answered Robin, “ the murderer
left no tracks on the grass or flower-beds. He
stuck to the hard gravel path throughout. That
path, which runs from the drive through the
rosery to the gravel path round the house just
under the library window, is precious hard to find
in the dark, especially where it leaves the drive,
as at the outset it is a mere thread between the
rhododendron bushes. And, as I know from ex-
perience, unless you are acquainted with the
turns in the path, it is very easy to get off it in
the dark, especially in the rosery, and go blunder-
ing on to the flower-beds. And I'll tell you some-
thing else about the murderer. He or she -
was of small stature - not much above five foot


THE CARDS ON THE TABLE . 205
“Why not?” said Mr. Manderton and moved
to the telephone.
There is little delay on the long-distance lines
on a Sunday evening, and the call to Harkins
came through almost at once. Bude answered
the telephone at Harkings. Manderton asked
for Miss Trevert. The butler replied that Miss
Trevert was no longer at Harkings. She had
gone to the Continent for a few days.
This plain statement, retailed in the fortissimo
voice which Bude reserved for use on the tele-
phone, produced a remarkable effect on the de-
tective. He grew red in the face.
“ What's that?” he cried assertively. “Gone
to the Continent? I should have been told about
this. Why wasn't I informed? What part of
the Continent has she gone to?”
Mr. Manderton's questions, rapped out with
a rasping vigour that recalled a machine-gun
firing, brought Robin to his feet in an instant.
He crossed over to the desk on which the tele-
phone stood.
Manderton placed one big palm over the trans-
mitter and turned to Robin.
“She's gone to the Continent and left no ad-
dress," he said quickly.
“ Ask him if Lady Margaret is there," sug-
gested Robin.


206 THE YELLOW STREAK
Mr. Manderton spoke into the telephone again.
Lady Margaret had gone to bed, Bude answered,
and her ladyship was much put out by Miss
Trevert gallivanting off like that by herself with
only a scribbled note left to say that she had
gone.
Had Bude got the note?
No, Mr. Manderton, sir, he had not. But Lady
Margaret had shown it to him. It had simply
stated that Miss Trevert had gone off to the
Continent and would be back in a few days.
Again the detective turned to Robin at his
elbow.
“ These country bumpkins!” he said savagely.
“I must go to the Yard and get Humphries on
the 'phone. He may have telegraphed me about
it. You stay here and I'll ring you later if
there's any news. What do you make of it, Mr.
Greve?”
“ It beats me," was Robin's rueful comment.
“ And what about the inquest? It's for Tuesday,
isn't it? Miss Trevert will have to give evidence,
I take it? ..."
"Oh,” said Mr. Manderton, picking up his hat
and speaking in an offhand way, “I'm getting
that adjourned for a week!”
« The inquest adjourned! Why?"


THE CARDS ON THE TABLE 207
There was a twinkle in the detective's eye as
he replied.
“I thought, maybe, I might get further evi-
dence ..."
Robin caught the expression and smiled.
“And when did you come to this decision,
may I ask?”
“After our little experiment in the garden
this morning," was the detective’s prompt reply.
Robin looked at him fixedly.
“But, see here,” he said, “apparently it was
to the deductions you formed from the result of
that experiment that I owe the attentions of
your colleagues who have been hanging round
the house all day. And yet you now come to me
and invite my assistance. Mr. Manderton, I
don't get it at all!”
“Mr. Greve," replied the detective, “Miss
Trevert tried to shield you. That made me sus-
picious. You tried to force my investigations
into an entirely new path. That deepened my
suspicions. I believed it to be my duty to ascer.
tain your movements after leaving Harkings.
But then I heard Jeekes make an apparently
gratuitously false statement to Miss Trevert
with an implication against you. That, to some
extent, cleared you in my eyes. I say "to some
extent' because I will not deny that I thought I


208 THE YELLOW STREAK
might be taking a risk in coming to you like this.
You see I am frank! ..."
The smile had left Greve's face and he looked
rather grim.
“You're pretty deep, aren't you?" was his
brief comments


CHAPTER XX
THE CODE KING
MAJOR EUAN MACTAVISH was packing. A heavy
and well-worn leather portmanteau, much
adorned with foreign luggage labels, stood in
the centre of the floor. From a litter of objects
piled up on a side table the Major was transfer-
ring to it various brown-paper packages which
he checked by a list in his hand.
The Major always packed for himself. He
packed with the neatness and rapidity derived
from long experience of travel. As a matter of
fact, he could not afford a manseryant any more
than he could allow himself quarters more lux-
urious than the rather grimy bedroom in Bury
Street which housed him during his transient
appearances in town. The remuneration doled
out by the Foreign Office to the quiet and unob-
trusive gentlemen known as King's messengers
is, in point of fact, out of all proportion to the
prestige and glamour surrounding the silver
greyhound badge, an example of which was
tucked away in a pocket of the Major's blue serge
jacket hanging over the back of a chair.
“Let's see,” said the Major, addressing a large


210
THE YELLOW STREAK
brown-paper covered package standing in the
corner of the room, "you're the bird-cage for
Lady Sylvia at The Hague. Two pounds of can-
dles for Mrs. Harry Deepdale at Berlin; the
razor blades for Sir Archibald at Prague; the
Teddy bear for Marjorie; polo-balls for the Hus.
sars at Constantinople — there! I think that's
the lot! Hullo, hullo, who the devil's that?"
With a groaning of wires a jangling bell
tinkled through the hall (the Major's bedroom
was on the ground floor). Sims, the aged ex.
butler, who, with his wife,“ did for" his lodgers
in more ways than one, was out and the single
servant-maid had her Sunday off. Euan Mac-
Tavish glanced at his wrist watch. It showed
the hour to be ten minutes past nine. A flowered
silk smoking-coat over his evening clothes and
a briar pipe in his mouth, he went out into the
hall and opened the front door.
It was a drenching night. The lamps from
a taxi which throbbed dully in the street outside
the house threw a gleaming band of light on
the shining pavement. At the door stood a taxi-
driver.
« There's a lady asking for Major MacTavish,"
he said, pointing at the cab. The Major stepped
across to the cab and opened the door.


THE CODE KING
211
“ Oh Euan," said a girl's voice, “how lucky
I am to catch you!"
“Why, Mary,” exclaimed the Major, “what
on earth brings you round to me on a night like
this? I only came up from the country this after-
noon and I'm off for Constantinople in the morn-
ing!”
“Euan," said Mary Trevert, “I want to talk
to you. Where can we talk?"
The Major raised his eyebrows. He was a little
man with grizzled hair and finely cut, rather
sharp features.
“ Well," he remarked, “ there's not a soul in
the house, and I've only got a bedroom here.
Though we're cousins, Mary, my dear, I don't
know that you ought to ..."
“You're a silly old-fashioned old dear," ex-
claimed the girl, “and I'm coming in. No, I'll
keep the cab. We shall want it!”
“All right," said the Major, helping her to
alight. “I tell you what. We'll go into Harry
Prankhurst's sitting-room. He's away for the
week-end, anyway!”
He took Mary Trevert into a room off the hall
and switched on the electric light. Then for
the first time he saw how pale she looked.
“My dear," he said, “I know what an awful
shock you've had ..."


212 THE YELLOW STREAK
“ You've heard about it?"
“I saw it in the Sunday papers. I was going
to write to you."
“Euan,” the girl began in a nervous, hasty
way, “I have to go to Holland at once. There
is not a moment to lose. I want you to help me
get my passport viséed.”
“But, my dear girl,” exclaimed the Major,
aghast, “ you can't go to Holland like this alone.
Does your mother know about it?”
The girl shook her head.
“It's no good trying to stop me, Euan," she
declared. “I mean to go, anyway. As a matter
of fact, Mother doesn't know. I merely left word
that I had gone to the Continent for a few days.
Nobody knows about Holland except you. And
if you won't help me I suppose I shall have to
go to Harry Tadworth at the Foreign Office. I
came to you first because he's always so
stuffy ..."
Euan MacTavish pushed the girl into a chair
and gave her a cigarette. He lit it for her and
took one himself. His pipe had vanished into
his pocket.
“ Of course, I'll help you," he said. “Now,
tell me all about it!”
“ Before , . , this happened I had promised


ELIAS VAN DER SPYCK & co.
GENERAL IMPORTERS
ROTTERDAM
Rotterdam 25th Nov.
Codes
A.B.C.
Liebler's
Personal
Dear Mr. Parrish,
Your favor of even date to hand and contents
noted. The last delivery of steel was to time but we have had
warning from the railway authorities that labour troubles at the
docks are likely to delay future consignments. If you don't
mind we should prefer to settle the question of future
delivery by Nov. 27 as we have a board meeting on the 30th
inst. While we fully appreciate your own difficulties with
labour at home, you will understand that this is a question
which we cannot afford to adjourn sine die.
Yours faithfully.
pro ELIAS VAN DER SPYCK & co.


216 THE YELLOW STREAK
“We believe that Robin Greve - you know
whom I mean — had a conversation with Hartley
just before he ... he shot himself. That very
afternoon Robin had asked me to marry him, but
I told him about my engagement. He said some
awful things about Hartley and rushed away.
Ten minutes later Hartley Parrish committed
suicide. And there was some one talking to him
in the library. Bude, the butler, heard the voices.
This afternoon I went down to the library alone
... to see if I could discover anything likely to
throw any light on poor Hartley's death. This
was the only letter I could find. It was tucked
away between two letter-trays. One tray fitted
into the other, and this letter had slipped be-
tween. It seems to have been overlooked both by
Mr. Parrish's secretary and the police ..."
“But I confess," argued the Major, “that I
don't see how this letter, which appears to be a
very ordinary business communication, impli-
cates anybody at all. Why shouldn't the police
see it? ..."
“Because,” said Mary, " directly after discov-
ering it I found Bruce Wright, who used to be
one of Mr. Parrish's private secretaries, hiding
behind the curtains in the library. Now, Bruce
Wright is a great friend of Robin Greve's, and


218
THE YELLOW STREAK
“Well, well,” he observed gently, “perhaps
they're not, after all!”
The girl looked up at him.
“Euan, dear," she said impulsively, “I knew
you'd understand. Robin and Hartley may have
had a row, but it was nothing worse. Robin is
incapable of having threatened - blackmailed —
Hartley, as the police seem to imagine. I am
greatly upset by it all; I can't see things clear
at all; but I'm determined not to give the police
a weapon like this to use against Robin until I
know whether it is sharp or blunt, until I have
found out what bearing, if any, this letter had
on Hartley Parrish's death ..."
Euan MacTavish leant back in his chair and
said nothing. He finished his cigarette, pitched
the butt into the fender, and turned to Mary.
He asked her to let him see the letter again. Once
more he read it over. Then, handing it back to
her, he said:
“It's all so simple-looking that there may well
be something behind it. But, if you do go to
Holland, how are you going to set about your
enquiries ?”
“ That's where you can help me, Euan, dear,"
answered the girl. “I want to find somebody
at Rotterdam who will help me to make some
confidential enquiries about this firm. Do you


THE CODE KING
219
know any one? An Englishman would be best,
of course ..."
But Euan MacTavish was halfway to the door.
“Wait there,” he commanded, “till I telephone
the one man in the world who can help us."
He vanished into the hall where Mary heard
him at the instrument.
“We are going round to the Albany," he said,
“ to see my friend, Ernest Dulkinghorn, of the
War Office. He can help us if any one can. But,
Mary, you must promise me one thing before we
go ... you must agree to do what old Ernest
tells you. You needn't be afraid. He is the most
unconventional of men, capable of even approv-
ing this madcap scheme of yours!”
“I agree,” said Mary, “but how you waste
time, Euan! We could have been at the Albany
by this time!”
In a first-floor oak-panelled suite at the Al.
bany, overlooking the covered walk that runs
from Piccadilly to Burlington Gardens, they
found an excessively fair, loose-limbed man
whose air of rather helpless timidity was height-
ened by a pair of large tortoise-shell spectacles.
He appeared excessively embarrassed at the
sight of MacTavish's extremely good-looking
companion.
“ You never told me you were bringing a lady,


220 THE YELLOW STREAK
Euan," he said reproachfully, “or I should have
attempted to have made myself more present-
able.”
He looked down at his old flannel suit and
made an apologetic gesture which took in the
table littered with books and papers and the sofa
on which lay a number of heavy tomes with
marked slips sticking out between the pages.
“I am working at a code," he explained.
“ Ernest here,” said MacTavish, turning to
Mary, “is the code king. Your pals in the In-
telligence tell me, Ernest, that you've never been
beaten by a code ..."
The fair man laughed nervously.
“ They've been pullin' your leg, Euan," he said.
“Don't you believe him, Mary,” retorted her
cousin. “This is the man who probably did
more than any one man to beat the Boche. When-
ever the brother Hun changed his code, Brother
Ernest was called in and he produced a key in
one, two, three! ..."
“What rot you talk, Euan!” said Dulking.
horn. “Working out a code is a combination of
mathematics, perseverance, and inspiration with
a good slice of luck thrown in! But isn't Miss
Trevert going to sit down?”
He cleared the sofa with a sweep of his arm
which sent the books flying on to the floor.


THE CODE KING
221
“Ernest,” said MacTavish, “I want you to
give Miss Trevert here a letter to some reliable
fellow in Rotterdam who can assist her in making
a few enquiries of a very delicate nature!”
“What sort of enquiries?” asked Dulkinghorn
bluntly.
“ About a firm called Elias van der Spyck,"
replied Euan.
“Of Rotterdam? ” enquired the other sharply.
“That's right! Do you know them?”
“I've heard the name. They do a big business.
But hadn't Miss Trevert better tell her story
herself? "
Mary told him of the death of Hartley Parrish
and of the letter she had found upon his desk.
She said nothing of the part played by Robin
Greve.
“Hmph!” said Dulkinghorn. “You think it
might be blackmail, eh? Well, well, it might be.
Have you got this letter about you? Hand it
over and let's have a look at it."
His nervous manner had vanished. His face
seemed to take on a much keener expression.
He took the letter from Mary and read it through.
Then he crossed the room to a wall cupboard
which he unlocked with a key on a chain, pro-
duced a small tray on which stood a number of
small bottles, some paint-brushes and pens, and


222 THE YELLOW STREAK
several little open dishes such as are used for
developing photographs. He bore the tray to
the table, cleared a space on a corner by knocking
a pile of books and papers on the floor, and set
it down.
“ Just poke the fire!” he said to Euan.
From a drawer in the table he produced a
board on which he pinned down the letter with
a drawing-pin at each corner. Then he dipped
a paint-brush into one of the bottles and care-
fully painted the whole surface of the sheet with
some invisible fluid.
“So!” he said, “ we'll leave that to dry and see
if we can find out any little secrets, eh? That
little tray'll do the trick if there's any monkey
business to this letter of yours, Miss Trevert.
That'll do the trick, eh, what?”
He paced the room as he talked, not waiting
for an answer, but running on as though he were
soliloquizing. Presently he turned and swooped
down on the board.
“Nothing," he ejaculated. “Now for the
acids!”
With a little piece of sponge he carefully wiped
the surface of the letter and painted it again
with a substance from another bottle.
“Just hold that to the fire, would you, Euan?”
he said, and gave MacTavish the board. He re.


THE CODE KING : 223
sumed his pacing, but this time he hummed in
the most unmelodious voice imaginable:
She was bright as a butterfly, as fair as a queen,
Was pretty little Polly Perkins, of Paddington Green.
“It's dry!”
MacTavish's voice broke in upon the pacing
and the discordant song.
« Well?”
Dulkinghorn snapped out the question.
“No result!” said Euan. He handed him the
board.
Dulkinghorn cast a glance at it, swiftly re-
moved the letter, held it for an instant up to
the electric light, fingered the paper for a mo-
ment, and handed the letter back to Mary.
“If it's code,” he said, “it's a conventional
code and that always beats the expert ... at
first. Go to Rotterdam and call on my friend,
Mr. William Schulz. I'll give you a letter for
him and he'll place himself entirely at your
disposition. Euan will take you over. Holland
is on your beat, ain't it, Euan? When do you
go next?"
“ To-morrow," said the King's Messenger.
“ The boat train leaves Liverpool Street at ten
o'clock."
“ You'll want a passport,” said Dulkinghorn,


224
THE YELLOW STREAK
turning to the girl. “You've got it there? Good.
Leave it with me. You shall have it back properly
viséed by nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Where
are you stayin'? Almond's Hotel. Good. I'll send
the letter for Mr. William Schulz with it!”
“But,” Euan interjected mildly, after making
several ineffectual efforts to stem the torrent of
speech, “do you really think that Miss Trevert
will be well advised to risk this trip to Holland
alone? Hadn't the police better take the matter
in hand?”
“Police be damned!” replied Dulkinghorn
heartily. “Miss Trevert will be better than a
dozen heavy-handed, heavy-footed plain-clothes
men. When you get to Rotterdam, Miss Trevert,
you trot along and call on William Schulz. He'll
see you through.”
Then, to indicate without any possibility of
misunderstanding, that his work had been inter-
rupted long enough, Dulkinghorn got up, and,
opening the sitting-room door, led the way into
the hall. As he stood with his hand on the latch
of the front door, Mary Trevert asked him:
“Is this Mr. Schulz an Englishman?”
“I'll let you into a secret,” answered Dulking.
horn; "he was. But he isn't now! No, no, I can't
say anything more. You must work it out for
yourself. But I will give you a piece of advice.


THE CODE KING
225
The less you say about Mr. William Schulz and
about your private affairs generally when you
are on the other side, the better it will be for you!
Good-night- and good luck!”
Euan MacTavish escorted Mary to Almond's
Hotel
“I'm very much afraid,” he said to her as they
walked along, “ that you're butting that pretty
head of yours into a wasps' nest, Mary!”
“Nonsense!” retorted the girl decisively; “I
can take care of myself!”
“If I consent to let you go off like this,” said
Euan," it is only on one condition . . . you must
tell Lady Margaret where you are going ..."
“That'll spoil everything,” answered Mary,
pouting; “Mother will want to come with me!”
“No, she won't,” urged her cousin, “not if I
tell her. She'll worry herself to death, Mary, if
she doesn't know what has become of you. You'd
better let me ring her up from the club and tell
her you're running over to Rotterdam for a few
days. Look here, I'll tell her you're going with
me. She'll be perfectly happy if she thinks I'm
to be with you ...".
On that Mary surrendered.
“ Have it your own way,” she said.
“ I'll pick you up here at a quarter-past nine
in the morning,” said Euan as he bade the girl


226 THE YELLOW STREAK
good-night at her hotel, “then we'll run down to
the F.O. and collect my bags and go on to the
station!”
“Euan," the girl asked as she gave him her
hand, “who is this man Schulz, do you think?"
The King's messenger leant over and whis-
pered:
“Secret Service!”
“ Secret Service!"
The girl repeated the words in a hushed voice.
" Then Mr. Dulkinghorn, ni is he .., that
too?"
Euan nodded shortly.
“ One of their leadin' lights!” he answered.
“ But, Euan," — the girl was very serious now,
- what has the Secret Service to do with Hart-
ley Parrish's clients in Holland?”
The King's messenger laid a lean finger along
his nose.
“Ah!” he said, “what? That's what is begin.
ning to interest me!”.


CHAPTER XXI
A WORD WITH MR. JEEKES
LIFE is like a kaleidoscope, that ingenious toy
which was the delight of the Victorian nursery.
Like the glass fragments in its slide, different in
colour and shape, men's lives lie about without
seeming connection; then Fate gives the instru-
ment a shake, and behold! the fragments slide
into position and form an intricate mosaic. ...
Mark how Fate proceeded on the wet and raw
Sunday evening when Bruce Wright, at the in.
stance of Mr. Manderton, quitted Robin Greve's
chambers in the Temple, leaving his friend and
the detective alone together. To tell the truth,
Bruce Wright was in no mood for facing the pro-
vincial gloom of a wet Sunday evening in London,
nor did he find alluring the prospect of a subur-
ban supper-party at the quiet house where he
lived with his widowed mother and sisters in
South Kensington. So, in an irresolute, unsettled
frame of mind, he let himself drift down the
Strand unable to bring himself to go home or, in-
deed, to form any plan.
He crossed Trafalgar Square, a nocturne in yel-
low and black — lights reflected yellow in pave-


228 THE YELLOW STREAK
ments shining dark with wet- and by and by
found himself in Pall Mall. Here it was that Fate
took a hand. At this moment it administered a
preliminary jog to the kaleidoscope and brought
the fragment labelled Bruce Wright into immedi-
ate proximity with the piece entitled Albert Ed-
ward Jeekes.
As Bruce Wright came along Pall Mall, he
saw Mr. Jeekes standing on the steps of his club.
The little secretary appeared to be lost in
thought, his chin thrust down on the crutch-
handle of the umbrella he clutched to himself. So
absorbed was he in his meditations that he did
not observe Bruce Wright stop and regard him.
It was not until our young man had touched him
on the arm that he looked up with a start.
“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, “ if it isn't
young Wright!”
Now the sight of Jeekes had put a great idea
into the head of our young friend. He had been
more chagrined than he had let it appear to
Robin Greve at his failure to recover the missing
letter from the library at Harkings. To obtain
the letter - or, at any rate, a copy of it — from
Jeekes and to hand it to Robin Greve would,
thought Bruce, restore his prestige as an amateur
detective, at any rate in his own eyes. Moreover,
a chat with Jeekes over the whole affair seemed


230 . THE YELLOW STREAK
gave the glasses a hasty rub with his pocket-
handkerchief, and replaced them. He slanted a
long narrow look at the young man.
Then, “ What letter do you mean?” he asked
composedly.
“A letter which lay on H. P.'s desk in the
library at Harkings when they found the
body ..."
“There was a letter there then ..?".
“Haven't you got it?”
Jeekes shook his head.
" Come inside for a minute and tell me about
this,” he said.
He led Bruce into the vast smoking-room of
the club. They took seats in a distant corner near
the blazing fire. The room was practically de-
serted.
Now, Mr. Jeekes's excessive carefulness about
money had been a long-standing joke amongst
his assistants when Bruce Wright had belonged
to Hartley Parrish's secretarial staff. Thrift had
become with him more than a habit. It was a
positive obsession. It revealed itself in such
petty meannesses as a perpetual cadging for
matches or small change and a careful abstention
from any offer of hospitality. Never in the whole
course of his service had Bruce Wright heard of
Mr. Jeekes taking anybody out to lunch or ex-


232
THE YELLOW STREAK
disguise his eagerness. On the contrary, it lent
his rather undistinguished features an expres-
sion of cunning which can only be described as
knavish. Bruce Wright, who, as will already have
been seen, was a young man with all his wits
about him, did not fail to remark it. The result
was that he hastily revised an intention half.
formed in his mind of taking Jeekes a little way
into his confidence regarding Robin Greve's
doubts and suspicions about Hartley Parrish's
death.
But he answered the secretary's question read-
ily enough.
“Because Miss Trevert told me you went to
the library immediately you arrived at Harkings
last night. I consequently assumed that you must
have taken away the letter seen by Robin
Greve ..."
Mr. Jeekes drew in his breath with a sucking
sound. It was a little trick of his when about to
speak.
“So you saw Miss Trevert at Harkings, eh?”
Bruce laughed.
“I did,” he said. “We had quite a dramatic
meeting, too – it was like a scene from a film!”
And, with a little good-humoured exaggera-
tion, he gave Mr. Jeekes a description of his en-
counter with Mary. And lest it should seem that


THE YELLOW STREAK
he said, thrusting out a limp hand;“must run off
now — mass of work to get through ..."
Then Bruce risked his leading question.
“If you haven't got this letter," he observed,
“what has become of it? Obviously the police are
not likely to have taken it because they know
nothing of its significance ..."
“Quite, quite," answered Mr. Jeekes absently,
but without replying to the young man's question.
“Why," asked Bruce boldly, “ did old H. P.
make such a mystery about these letters on the
slatey-blue paper, Mr. Jeekes? "
The secretary wrinkled up his thin lips and
sharp nose into a cunning smile.
“ When you get to be my age, young Wright,"
he made answer," you will understand that every
man has a private side to his life. And, if you
have learnt your job properly, you will also know
that a private secretary's first duty is to mind his
own business. About this letter now - it's the
first I've heard of it. Take my advice and don't
bother your head about it. If it exists ..."
“But it does exist,” broke in Bruce quickly.
“ Mr. Greve saw it and read it himself ..."
Mr. Jeekes laughed drily.
“Don't you forget, young Wright,” he said,
jerking his chin towards the youngster in a con-
fidential sort of way," don't you forget that Mr.


A WORD WITH MR. JEEKES 237
would ring up Robin Greve at his chambers in the
Temple and give him an outline of his (Bruce's)
talk with Jeekes. Bruce went to the public call-
box in the station, but the rhythmic “ Zoom-er!
Zoom-er! Zoom-er!” which announces that a
nuniber is engaged was all the satisfaction he got.
The prospect of waiting about the draughty sta-
tion exit did not appeal to him, so he decided to
go home and telephone Robin, as originally ar-
ranged, in the morning.
Just about the time that he made this resolve,
Robin in his rooms in the Temple was hanging np
the receiver of his telephone with a dazed expres-
sion in his eyes. Mr. Manderton had rung him ap
with a piece of intelligence which fairly bewild-
ered him. It bewildered Mr. Manderton also, as
the detective was frank enough to acknowledge.
Mary Trevert had gone to Rotterdam for a few
days in company with her cousin, Major Euan
MacTavish. Mr. Manderton had received this as-
tonishing information by telephone from Hark-
ings a few minutes before.
“ It bothers me properly, Mr. Greve, sir,” the
detective had added.
“There's only one thing for it, Manderton,"
Robin had said; “ I'll have to go after her ..."
« The very thing I was about to suggest my.
self, Mr. Greve. You're unofficial-like and can be


238 THE YELLOW STREAK
more helpful than if we detailed one of our own
people from the Yard. And with the investigation
in its present stage I don't reely feel justified in
going off on a wild-goose chase myself. There are
several important enquiries going forward now,
notably as to where Mr. Parrish bought his pis-
tol. But we certainly ought to find out what takes
Miss Trevert careering off to Rotterdam in this
way ..."
“It seems almost incredible," Robin had said,
“but it looks to me as though Miss Trevert must
have found out something about the letter ..."
“ Or found it herself ..."
“By Jove! She was in the library when Bruce
Wright was there. This settles it, Manderton.
I must go!”.
“ Then,” said the detective, “I'm going to en-
trust you with that slotted sheet of paper again.
For I have an idea, Mr. Greve, that you may get
a glimpse of that letter before I do. I'll send a
messenger round with it at once.”
Then a difficulty arose. Manderton had not got
the girl's address. They had no address at Hark-
ings. Nor did he know what train Miss Trevert
had taken. She might have gone by the 9 P.M.
that night. Had Mr. Greve got a passport? Yes,
Robin had a passport, but it was not viséed for
Holland. That meant he could not leave until the
ve


A WORD WITH MR. JEEKES 241
situation very calmly but very thoroughly. He
told himself that he had no indication as to Mary
Trevert's business in Rotterdam save the suppo-
sition that she had found the van der Spyck letter
and had come to Rotterdam to investigate the
matter for herself. He realized that the hypothe-
sis was thin, for, in the first place, Mary could
have no inkling as to the hidden significance of
the document, and, in the second place, she was
undoubtedly under the impression that Hartley.
Parrish was driven to suicide by his (Robin's)
threats.
But, in the absence of any other apparent ex.
planation of the girl's extraordinary decision to
come to Rotterdam, Robin decided he would ac-
cept the theory that she had come about the van
der Spyck letter. How like Mary, after all, he
mused, self-willed, fearless, independent, to rush
off to Holland on her own on a quest like this!
Where would her investigations lead her? To the
offices of Elias van der Spyck & Co., to be sure!
Robin threw his napkin down on the table, thrust
back his chair, and went off to the hotel porter
to locate the address of the firm.
The telephone directory showed that the offices
were situated in the Oranien-Straat, about ten
minutes' walk from the hotel, in the business
quarter of the city round the Bourse. Robin


242 THE YELLOW STREAK
glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to
ten. The principals, he reflected, were not likely
to be at the office before ten o'clock. It was a fine
morning and he decided to walk. The hotel porter
gave him a few simple directions: the gentleman
could not miss the way, he said; so Robin started
off, hope high in his breast of getting a step
nearer to the elucidation of the mystery of the li-
brary at Harkings.
A brisk walk of about ten minutes through the
roaring streets of the city brought him to a big
open square from which, he had been instructed,
the Oranien-Straat turned off. He was just pass-
ing a large and important-looking post-office-
he remarked it because he looked up at a big clock
in the window to see the time — when a man
came hastily through the swing-door and stopped
irresolutely on the pavement in front, glancing
to right and left as a man does who is looking
for a cab.
At the sight of him Robin could scarcely sup-
press an expression of amazement. It was Mr.
Jeekes.


CHAPTER XXII
THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW FACE
IN a narrow, drowsy side street at Rotterdam,
bisected by a somnolent canal, stood flush with
the red-brick sidewalk a small clean house. Wire
blinds affixed to the windows of its ground and
first floors gave it a curious blinking air as though
its eyes were only half open. To the neat green
front door was affixed a large brass plate in-
scribed with the single name: “SCHULZ."
A large woman, in a pink print dress with a
white cloth bound about her head, was vigorously
polishing the plate as, on the morning following
her departure from London, Mary Trevert, Dulk-
inghorn's letter of introduction in her pocket, ar.
rived in front of the residence of Mr. William
Schulz. Euan MacTavish had, on the previous
evening, seen her to her hotel and had then-
very reluctantly, as it seemed to Mary — de-
parted to continue his journey to The Hague, his
taxi piled high with white-and-green Foreign
Office bags, heavily sealed with scarlet wax.
Mary Trevert approached the woman, her let-
ter of introduction, which Dulkinghorn, being an
unusual person, had fastened down, in her hand.


244 THE YELLOW STREAK
“ Schulz?” she said interrogatively.
“ Nicht da,” replied the woman without look.
ing up from her rubbing.
“ Has he gone out? ” asked Mary in English.
“Verstehe nicht!” mumbled the woman.
But she put down her cleaning-rag and, breath-
ing heavily, mustered the girl with a leisurely
stare.
Mary repeated the question in German where-
upon the woman brightened up considerably.
The Herr was not at home. The Herr had gone
out. On business, jawohl. To the bank, perhaps.
But the Herr would be back in time for Mittages-
sen at noon. There was beer soup followed by
Rindfleisch ...
Mary hesitated an instant. She was wondering
whether she should leave her letter of introduc.
tion. She decided she would leave it. So she
wrote on her card: “Anxious to see you as soon
as possible" and the name of her hotel, and gave
it, with the letter, to the woman.
“Please see that Herr Schulz gets that directly
he comes in,” she said. “ It is important!"
“Gut, gut!” said the woman, wiping her hands
on her apron. She took the card and letter, and
Mary, thanking her, set off to go back to her hotel.
About twenty yards from Mr. Schulz's house a
narrow alley ran off. As Mary turned to regain


MAN WITH THE YELLOW FACE 245
the little footbridge across the canal to return to
the noisy street which would take her back to the
hotel, she caught sight of a man disappearing
down this alley.
She only had a glimpse of him, but it was suffi-
cient to startle her considerably. He was a small
man wearing a tweed cap and a tweed travelling
ulster of a vivid brown. It was not these details,
however, which took her aback. It was the fact
that in the glimpse she had had of the man's face
she had seemed to recognize the features of Mr.
Albert Edward Jeekes.
“What an extraordinary thing!” Mary said to
herself. “ It can't be Mr. Jeekes. But if it is not,
it is some one strikingly like him!”
To get another view of the stranger she hurried
to the corner of the alley. It was a mere thread
of a lane, not above six yards wide, running be-
tween the houses a distance of some sixty yards
to the next street. But the alley was empty. The
stranger had disappeared.
Mary went a little way down the lane. A
wooden fence ran down it on either side, with
doors at intervals apparently giving on the back
yards of the houses in the street. There was no
sign of Mr. Jeekes's double, so she retraced her
steps and returned to her botel without further
incident.


246
THE YELLOW STREAK
She had not been back more than half an hour
when a waiter came in to the lounge where she
was sitting.
“ Miss Trevert?" he said. “ Zey ask for you at
ze delephone!"
He took her to a cabin under the main staircase.
“ This is Miss Trevert speaking!” said Mary.
“I am speaking for Mr. Schulz," a man's voice
answered — rather a nasal voice with a shade of
foreign inflexion — "he has had your letter. He
is very sorry he has been detained in the country,
but would be very glad if you would lunch with
him to-day at his country-house."
“I shall be very pleased,” the girl replied. “Is
it far?”
“Only just outside Rotterdam," the voice re-
sponded. “Mr. Schulz will send the car to the
hotel to pick you up at 11.45. The driver will ask
for you. Is that all right?”
“Certainly,” said Mary. “Please thank Mr.
Schulz and tell him I will expect the car at a
quarter to twelve!”
Punctually at the appointed hour an open tour-
ing-car drove up to the hotel. Mary was waiting
at the entrance. The driver was a young Dutch-
man in a blue serge suit. He jumped out and came
up to Mary.
“ Mees Trevert?" he said.


MAN WITH THE YELLOW FACE 247
Mary nodded, whereupon he helped her into
the car, then got back into the driving-seat and
they drove away.
A run of about twenty minutes through trim
suburbs brought them out on a long straight road,
paved with bricks and lined with poplars. The
day was fine with a little bright sunshine from
time to time and a high wind which kept the sails
of the windmills dotting the landscape turning
briskly. They followed the road for a bit, then
branched off down a side turning which led to a
black gate. It bore the name “ Villa Bergendal”
in white letters. The gate opened into a short
drive fringed by thick laurel bushes which pres-
ently brought them in view of an ugly square red-
brick house.
The car drew up at a creeper-hung porch paved
in red tiles. The chauffeur helped Mary to alight
and, pushing open a glass door, ushered the girl
into a square, comfortably furnished hall. Some
handsome Oriental rugs were spread about:
trophies of native weapons hung on the walls,
and there were some fine specimens of old Dutch
chests and blue Delft ware.
The chauffeur led the way across the hall to a
door at the far end. As Mary followed him, some-
thing bright lying on one of the chests caught her


MAN WITH THE YELLOW FACE 251
tion reminded her of her determination to tolerate
no interference from Jeekes or her mother.
So she merely answered: “It was no trouble
to come,” and waited for the man to speak again.
He pulled forward the Chesterfield and made
her sit down beside him.
"I had the letter of introduction," he said,
" and I want you to know that my services are
entirely at your disposal. Now, what can I do for
you?"
He looked at the girl intently-rather anxious-
ly, she thought.
“That was explained in the letter," she an.
swered, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
“ Yes, yes, of course, I know. I meant in what
way do you propose to make use of my ...my
local knowledge?"
“I will tell you that, Mr. Schulz," Mary Trevert
said in a measured voice, “when you tell me what
you think of the mission which has brought me
here ..."
The snake's eyes narrowed a little.
“For a young lady to have come out alone to
Holland on a mission of this description speaks
volumes for your pluck and self-reliance, Miss
Trevert ..."
“I asked you what you thought of my mission
to Holland, Mr. Schulz," Mary interposed coldly.


254; THE YELLOW STREAK
in it. The girl felt her heart turn cold within her
every time her eyes fell on the mask-like face.
Mr. Schulz shrugged shoulders.
“Since you insist ...," he remarked. “But I
think it is scarcely fair on our friend Dulking.
horn. The letter is in the safe in my office next
door. If you come along I will get it out and
show it to you ...".
He spoke unconcernedly, but stiffly, as though
to emphasize the slight put upon his dignity. One
hand thrust jauntily in his jacket pocket, he
stepped across the carpet to the door with the
blue curtain. He opened it, then stood back for
the girl to pass in before him.
“After you!" he said.
He had placed himself so close to the doorway
that the black fox about her neck brushed his face
as she passed. Suddenly a warm, sickly whiff of
some sweet-smelling odour came to her. She
stopped on the instant, irresolute, alarmed. Then
a dank hand was clapped on her face, covering
nostrils and mouth with a soft cloth reeking with
a horrible cloying drug. An arm with muscles like
steel was passed round her waist and held her in
a vice-like grip against which she struggled in
vain. She felt her senses slipping, slipping ,


CHAPTER XXIII
TWO'S COMPANY , .
On the pavement opposite the post-office stood
one of those high pillars which are commonly
used in Continental cities for the display of
theatre and concert advertisements. Robin in-
stantly stepped behind it. It was not that he
wished to avoid being seen by Jeekes as much as
that he had not decided in his mind what course
he had best pursue. From behind the cover of the
pillar he mustered his man.
The little secretary looked strange and unfa-
miliar in a sporting sort of travelling ulster of a
tawny brown hue and a cap of the same stuff. But
there was no mistaking the watery eyes, the
sharp nose, the features. He had obviously not
seen Robin. His whole attention was rivetted on
the street. He kept peering nervously to right
and left as though expecting some one.
Suddenly he stepped forward quickly to the
kerb. Then Robin saw an open car detach itself
from the press of traffic in the square and, driven
very fast, approach the post-office. It was a
large car with a grey body; a sallow man wearing
a black felt hat sat at the wheel. The car drew


256. THE YELLOW STREAK
up at the kerb and halted within a few feet of the
advertisement pillar. Robin backed hastily round
it to escape observation. He had resolved to do
nothing until he had ascertained who Jeekes's
friend was and what business the secretary had
with him.
“It's all right,” Robin heard the man in the car
say in English; “I telephoned the girl and she's
coming. What a piece of luck, eh?”
Robin heard the click of the car door as it
swung open.
“... better get along out there at once,” he
heard the man in the car say, “I'm sending Jan
in the car for her at ..."
Then Robin stepped out unexpectedly from be-
hind his pillar and cannoned into Mr. Jeekes,
who was just entering the car.
“Good-morning,” said Robin with easy assur-
ance; “I'm delighted to hear that you've found
Miss Trevert, Jeekes, for, to tell the truth, I was
feeling somewhat uneasy about her ..."
The secretary's face was a study. The surprise
of seeing Robin, who had dropped, it seemed to
him, out of the clouds into the city of Rotterdam,
deprived him of speech for an instant. He blinked
his eyes, looked this way and that, and finally,
with a sort of blind gesture, readjusted his pince-
nez and glared at the intruder.


258
THE YELLOW STREAK
xious to see Miss ... er ... Trevert? She has
come to Rotterdam (so my friend Jeekes tells
me) to look into certain important business
transactions which the late Mr. Parrish had in
hand at the time of his death. Did I understand
you to say that you were uneasy about this lady?
Is there any mystery about her journey? ..."
For the moment Robin felt somewhat abashed.
The question was rather a poser. Was there, in
effect, any mystery about Mary's trip to Rotter-
dam accompanied by her cousin ? She had ac-
quainted her people at Harkings with her plans.
What if, after all, everything was open and
above-board, and she had merely come to Rotter-
dam on business? It seemed difficult to believe.
Surely in such a case the solicitor, Bardy, would
have been the more suitable emissary ...
“ You'll forgive us, I'm sure,” the yellow-faced
man remarked suavely, “but we're in a great
hurry. Would you mind closing that door? ..."
Robin closed the door. But he got into the car
first. As he had stood on the pavement in doubt,
the recollection of Jeekes's inexplicable lie about
the payments made by Parrish for the French
lady in the Mayfair flat came back to him and
deepened the suspicion in his mind. It would in
any case, he told himself, do no harm to find out


TWO'S COMPANY: 259
who this rather unsavoury-looking Rotterdam
friend of Jeekes’s was ...
So Robin jumped into the car and sat down
on the back seat next to the secretary.
“It happens,” he said, “ that I am particularly
anxious to see Miss Trevert. As I gather you
are going to meet her, I feel sure you won't mind
my accompanying you ..."
The yellow-faced man turned with an easy
smile.
“Sorry," he said, “but we are having a meet-
ing with Miss Trevert on private business and I'm
afraid we cannot take you along. Jeekes here,
however, could take a message to Miss Trevert
and if she wanted to see you ..."
He broke off significantly and smiled slily at
the secretary. Robin felt himself flush. So Jeekes
had been telling tales out of school to Mr. Victor,
had he? The young man squared his jaw. That
settled it. He would stay.
“I promise not to butt in on your private busi-
ness," he replied, “but I simply must see Miss
Trevert before I go back to London. So, if you
don't mind, I think I'll come along ..."
The yellow-faced man glanced at his wrist
watch.
"I can't prevent you!” he exclaimed. Then he
rapped out something in Dutch to Jeekes. The


TWO'S COMPANY 261
main road lined with poplars. Robin wondered
whither they were bound. He was about to put
the question to the secretary when the man Vic-
tor turned his head and said over his shoulder:
“ Nu!"
At the same moment the speed of the car sens-
ibly diminished.
Jeekes put his arm across the young man at his
side.
“That door,” he said, touching his sleeve,
“ doesn't seem to be properly shut. Would you
mind ..."
Robin pushed the door with his hand.
“ It seems all right,” he said.
• Permit me ..."
The secretary stretched across and pulled back
the latch, releasing the door. It swung out.
“Now close it,” said Mr. Jeekes.
The door was flapping to and fro with the
swaying of the car over the rough road and Robin
had to half rise in order to comply with the re-
quest. He was leaning forward, steadying himself
with one hand grasping the back of the driving.
seat, when he received a tremendous shove in the
back. At the same moment the car seemed to leap
forward: he made a desperate effort to regain
his balance, failed, and was whirled out head
foremost on to the side of the road.


TWO'S COMPANY 263
to retrieve his hat or even to wipe the mud from
his face, he started off at a brisk run along the
road in the direction in which the car had dis-
appeared. He had not gone far before he found
that his heavy overcoat was seriously impeding
him. He stripped it off and, folding it, hid it be-
neath a bush just inside the plantation. Then he
ran on again.
Fresh disappointment awaited him when he
rounded the bend in the road. A few hundred
yards on the road turned again. There was no
sign of the car. A cart piled high with manure
was approaching, the driver, wearing wooden
shoes and cracking at intervals a huge whip,
trudging at the side.
Robin stopped him.
“Motor-car? Automobile?” he asked pointing
in the direction from which the cart had come.
The driver stared at him with a look of owlish
stupidity.
“Automobile? ” repeated Robin. “Tuff-Tuff?”
Very slowly a grin suffused the carter's grimy
face. He showed a row of broken black teeth. A
tiny stream of saliva escaped from the corner of
his mouth and trickled over the reddish stubble
on his chin. Then he continued his way, turning
his head every now and then to display his idiot's
grin.


264 THE YELLOW STREAK
“ Damnation!” exclaimed Robin, starting to
run again. “Not a soul to ask in this accursed
desert except the village idiot! Oh! that Jeekes!
I'll wring his blinking neck when I get hold of
him!”
He was furious with himself for the abject way
in which he had been fooled. The man Victor had
given Jeekes his orders in Dutch and had pur-
posely picked a soft spot on the roadside and
slowed down the car in order that the unwelcome
intruder might be ejected as safely as possible.
And to think that Robin had blandly allowed
Jeekes to open the door and throw him out on
the road!
He was round the second bend now. The sun
was shining with a quite respectable warmth
and the steamy air made him desperately hot.
The perspiration rolled off his face. But he never
slackened his gait. Robin knew these Continental
roads and their habit of running straight. He
reckoned confidently on presently coming upon
a long stretch where he might discern the car.
He was not deceived. After the second bend the
chaussée, just as he anticipated, straightened
out and ran clear away between an ever-narrow-
ing double line of poplars to become a bluish
blob on the horizon. But of the car nothing was
to be seen.


TWO'S COMPANY
265
For the second time Robin pulled up. He took
serious counsel with himself. He estimated that
he could see for about three miles along the road.
Less than three minutes had elapsed since his
misadventure, and therefore he was confident
that the car should yet be in sight, unless it had
left the road, for it could not have warmed up to
a speed exceeding sixty miles an hour in the time.
There was no sign of the car on the road, conse-
quently it must have left it. Robin had passed
no side roads between the scene of the accident
and the second bend; therefore, he argued, he had
the car before him still. He would go on.
When he started off for the third time, it was at
a brisk walking pace. As he went he kept a sharp
lookout to right and left of the road for any trace
of the car. It never occurred to him that to follow
on foot a swift car bound for an unknown desti-
nation was the maddest kind of wild-goose chase.
He was profoundly uneasy about Mary, but at the
same time immeasurably angered by the trick
played upon him - angered not so much against
Jeekes as against the sallow-faced man whom he
recognized as its inceptor. He had no thought
for anything else.
The flat Dutch landscape stretched away on
either side of the road. A windmill or two, the in-
evitable irrigation canals with their little sluices,


266 THE YELLOW STREAK
and an occasional tree alone broke the monotony
of the scene. But away to the right Robin no-
ticed a clump of trees which, he surmised, might
conceivably enclose a house.
As he walked, he scrutinized the roadway for
any track of a car. But on the hard brick pavé
wheels left no mark. The first side road he came
to was likewise paved in brick. In grave perplex-
ity Robin came to a halt.
Then his eye fell upon a puddle. It lay on the
edge of the footpath bordering the chaussée
about five yards beyond the turning. The soft
mud which skirted it showed the punched-out
pattern of a studded tyre! The car had not taken
this side road, at any rate. It had probably pulled
over on to the footpath to pass the manure cart
which Robin had met. He pushed on again val-
iantly.
Another hundred yards brought him to a sec-
ond side road. There was no pavé here, but a soft
sandy surface. And it bore, clearly imprinted in
the mud, the fresh tracks of a car as it had turned
off the road.
Breaking into a run Robin followed the track
down the turning. It led him to a black gate be-
yond which was a twisting gravel drive fringed
with high laurels. And the gravel showed the
same tyre marks as the road.
sa


TWO'S COMPANY 267
He vaulted the gate lightly and ran up the
drive. He was revolving in his head what his
next move should be. Should he walk boldly into
the house and confront Jeekes and his rascally
looking companion or should he first spy out the
ground and try to ascertain whether Mary had
arrived? He decided on the latter course.
Accordingly, when an unexpected turn of the
drive brought him in view of a white porch, he
left the avenue and took cover behind the laurel
bushes. Walking softly on the wet grass and
keeping well down behind the laurels, he went
forward parallel with the drive. It ran into a
clean courtyard with a coach house or garage on
one side and a small green door, seemingly a side
entrance into the house, on the other.
There was no one in the courtyard and the
house seemed perfectly quiet. From his post of
observation behind the laurels, Robin observed
that a tall window beside the green door com-
manded the view across the courtyard. He there-
fore retraced his steps by the way he had come.
When he was past the corner of the house, he re-
turned to the drive and keeping close to the
bushes walked quietly into the courtyard. There,
hugging the wall, he crept round past the closed
doors of the garage until he found himself be-
side the tall window adjoining the green door.


268 THE YELLOW STREAK
The window was open a few inches at the top.
From within the sound of voices reached him.
Jeekes was speaking. Robin recognized his
rather grating voice at once.
“... no more violence," he was saying;
“ first Greve and now the girl. I don't like your
methods, Victor ...".
Very cautiously Robin dropped on one knee
and shuffled forward in this position until his
eyes were on a level with the window-sill. He
found himself looking into a narrow room, well
lighted by a second window at the farther end.
It was apparently an office, for there was a high
desk running down the centre and a large safe
occupied a prominent place against the wall.
Jeekes and the man Victor stood chatting at
the desk. The yellow-faced man was grinning
sardonically.
“Parrish don't like your methods, I'll be
bound," he retorted. “Don't you worry about the
little lady, Jeekes! Bless your heart, I won't hurt
her unless ..."
The loud throbbing of a car at the front of the
house made Robin duck his head hastily. The
car, he guessed, might be round at the garage any
moment and it would not do for him to be dis-
covered. He got clear of the window, rose to his
feet, and tiptoed round the house by the way he


TWO'S COMPANY
269
had come. Then he crossed the drive and regained
the shelter of the laurels. Crawling along until
he came level with the porch, he peeped through.
Mary Trevert was just entering the house.


CHAPTER XXIV
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF MR. SCHULZ
As the girl collapsed, the yellow-faced man, with
an adroit movement, whisked the handkerchief
off her face and crammed it into his pocket. Then,
while he supported her with one arm, with the
other he thrust at the door to close it. Without
paying further attention to it, he turned and,
bending down, lifted the girl without an effort
off her feet and carried her across the room to the
Chesterfield, upon which he laid her at full
length. Then he seized her muff, which dangled
from her neck by a thin platinum chain.
Suddenly he heard the door behind him creak.
In a flash he remembered that he had not heard
the click of the lock as he had thrust the door to.
He was springing erect when a firm hand gripped
him by the back of the collar and pulled him
away from the couch. He staggered back, striv-
ing to regain his balance, but then a savage shove
flung him head foremost into the fireplace. He
fell with a crash among the fire-irons. But he was
on his feet again in an instant.
He saw a tall, athletic-looking young man
standing at the couch. He had a remarkably


METAMORPHOSIS OF MR. SCHULZ 273
Slowly, defiantly the young man raised his
arms above his head.
Mr. Jeekes stood close to the driver's seat, hav-
ing prudently put the car between himself and
Robin. As he stood there, his automatic levelled
at the young man, a remarkable thing happened.
A black, soft surface suddenly fell over his face
and was pulled back with a brisk tug. Mary Tre-
vert, standing up in the back seat of the car, had
flung her fur over the secretary's head from be-
hind and caught him in a noose. Before Mr.
Jeekes could disentangle himself, Robin was at
his throat and had borne him to the ground. The
pistol was knocked skilfully from his hand and
fell clattering on the flags. Robin pounced down
on it. Then for the first time he smiled, a sunny
smile that lit up his blue eyes.
“ Bravo, Mary!” he said. “ That was an idea!
Now, then, Jeekes,” he ordered, “crank up that
car. And be quick about it! We want to be off!”
The little secretary was a lamentable sight. He
was bleeding from a cut on the forehead, his
clothes were covered with dust, and his glasses
had been broken in his fall. Peering helplessly
about him, he walked to the bonnet of the car and
sullenly grasped the handle. The smile had left
Robin's face, and Mary noticed that he looked
several times anxiously at the office door.


274
THE YELLOW STREAK
And then suddenly the engine bit. Handing the
pistol to the girl, Robin warned her to keep the
secretary covered and, leaping into the driving-
seat, turned the car into the avenue which curved
round the house.
Mr. Jeekes made no further show of fight. He
remained standing in the centre of the courtyard,
a ludicrous, rather pathetic, figure. As the tyres
of the car gritted on the gravel of the drive, the
office door was flung open and the yellow-faced
man ran out, brandishing a big revolver.
“ Stop!” he shouted and levelled his weapon.
The car seemed to leap forward and took the -
sharp turn on two wheels just as the man fired.
The bullet struck the wall of the house and sent
up a shower of plaster. Before he could fire again
the car was round the house and out of sight. But
as the car whizzed round the turn an instant be.
fore the yellow-faced man fired, the girl heard a
sharp cry from Jeekes:
“Don't, Victor . . . !”
The rest of the sentence was lost in the roar of
the engine as the car raced away down the drive.
They left the avenue in a splutter of wet gravel.
The gate still stood open. They wheeled furiously
into the side road and regained the chaussée. As
yet there was no sign of pursuit. The car rocked
dangerously over the broken pavé, so Robin, after


· METAMORPHOSIS OF MR. SCHULZ 275
a glance behind, steadied her down to an easier
pace. Mary, who looked very pale and ill, was
lying back on the back seat with her eyes closed.
They ran easily into Rotterdam as, with a ter-
rific jangle of tunes played jerkily on the chimes,
the clocks were striking two. Robin slowed down
as they approached the centre of the city.
“Where are you staying, Mary?” he asked.
He had to repeat the question several times be-
fore she gave him the address. Then he found
himself in a quandary. He was in a strange town
and did not know a word of the language so as to
be able to ask the way. However, he solved the
difficulty without great trouble. He beckoned to
a newspaper boy on the square outside the Bourse
and, holding up a two-gulden piece, indicated by
signs that he desired him as a guide. The boy
comprehended readily enough and, springing on
the footboard of the car, brought them safely to
the hotel.
Robin left Mary and the car in charge of the
boy and went to the office and asked to see the
manager. He had decided upon the story he must
tell.
“Miss Trevert,” he said, when the manager, a
blond and suave Swiss, had presented himself,
“has been to the dentist and has been rather up-
set by the gas. Would you get one of the maids


276 THE YELLOW STREAK -
to help her up to her room and in the meantime
telephone for a doctor. If there is an English doc-
tor in Rotterdam, I should prefer to have him!”
The manager clicked in sympathy. He de-
spatched a lady typist and a chambermaid to help
Mary out of the car.
“For a doctor," he said, “it ees fortunate. We
’ave an English doctor staying in ze hotel now -
a sheep's doctor. He is in ze lounge. Eef you
come, hein?"
The “sheep's doctor" proved to be a doctor off
one of the big liners, a clean-shaven, red-faced,
hearty sort of person who readily volunteered his
services. As Robin was about to follow him into
the lift, the manager stopped him.
“ Zere was a shentleman call to see Mees Tre-
vert,” he said, “two or three time 'e been 'ere ...
a Sherman shentleman. 'E leave 'er a note ...
will you take it?".
Greatly puzzled, Robin Greve balanced in his
hands the letter which the manager produced
from a pigeon-hole. Then he tore open the en-
velope.
DEAR MISS TREVERT [he read], I was extremely
sorry to miss you this morning. Directly I received
your message I called at your hotel, but, though I
have been back twice, I have not found you in. Cir-
cumstances have arisen which make it imperative that


METAMORPHOSIS OF MR. SCHULZ 277
I should see you as soon as possible. This is most
urgent. I will come back at four o'clock, as I cannot
get away before. Do not leave the hotel on any pretext
until you have seen me and Dulkinghorn's letter as
identification. You are in grave danger.
The note was signed “W. Schulz.”
“H’m,” was Robin's comment; "he writes like
an Englishman, anyway."
He ascertained the number of Mary Trevert's
room and went up to her floor in the lift. He
waited in the corridor outside the room for the
doctor to emerge, and lit a cigarette to while
away the time. It was not until he had nearly fin-
ished his second cigarette that the doctor ap-
peared.
The doctor hesitated on seeing Robin. Then he
stepped close up to him. Robin noticed that his
red face was more flushed than usual and his eyes
were troubled.
“What's this cock-and-bull story about gas
you've put up to the manager?” he said bluntly
in a low voice. “The girl's been doped with chloro-
form, as well you know. You'll be good enough to
come downstairs to the manager with me ..."
Robin took out his note-case and produced a
card.
“ That's my name,” he said. “You'll see that
I'm a barrister ..."


280 THE YELLOW STREAK
been entitled to a place in any museum for show:
ing the mode of life of the twentieth-century Ger-
mans. With its stuffy red rep curtains, its big
green majolica stove, its heavy mahogany furni.
ture, its oleographs of Bismarck, Roon, and
Moltke, it might have been lifted bodily from a
bourgeois house in the Fatherland.
A man was sitting at a mahogany roll-top desk
as they entered. The air in the room was thick
with the fumes of the cheap Dutch cigar he was
smoking. He was a sturdily built fellow with
blond hair shaven so close to the skull that at a
distance he seemed to be bald.
At the sound of their entrance, he rose and
faced them. When he stood erect the sturdiness
of his build became accentuated, and they saw he
was a man of medium height, but so muscular
that he looked much shorter. A pair of large
'tortoise-shell spectacles straddled a big beak-like
nose, and he wore a heavyish blond moustache
with its points trained upwards and outwards
rather after the fashion made famous in the
Fatherland by William Hohenzollern. In his ill-
cut suit of cheap-looking blue serge, which he
wore with a pea-green tie, Robin thought he
looked altogether a typical specimen of the Ger-
man of the non-commissioned officer class.
“ You ask for me?” he said in deep guttural


284
THE YELLOW STREAK
“Not Ernest Dulkinghorn, of the War Office?"
asked Robin.
“ The identical party!"
“I never met him,” said Robin. “But I was
at the War Office for a bit before I was demobi.
lized and I heard fellows speak of him. Counter-
espionage, isn't he?"
“That's right,” nodded Herr Schulz. “You
can read his letter to me introducing Miss Tre-
vert.”
He handed a sheet of paper to Robin.
DEAR SCHULZ [it ran), Victor Marbran's push ap-
pear to be connected with Hartley Parrish, who has
just met his death under suspicious circumstances.
You will have read about it in the English papers.
Miss Trevert was engaged to H. P. and has a letter
from Elias van der Spyck and Company which she
found on Parrish's desk after his death. I should say
that the Marbran-Parrish connection would repay in-
vestigation.
Yours
E. DULKINGHORN
P.S. The letter is, of course, in conventional code.
P.P.S. Don't frighten the life out of the Trevert
girl, you unsympathetic brute!
Robin read the letter through to the end.
« Then Mary Trevert has this letter from Rot-
terdam which we have been hunting for!” he
cried. “Have you seen it?",


THE READING OF THE RIDDLE 285
Herr Schulz shook his head.
“Miss Trevert called here this morning,” he
said, “when I was out. She gave her letter to
Frau Wirth, my housekeeper, with her card and
address. Frau Wirth was cleaning the plate on
the front door and, a moment after Miss Trevert
had gone, a fellow appeared and said he was a
friend of Miss Trevert who had made a mistake
and left the wrong letter. My housekeeper is well
trained and wouldn't give the letter up. But she
made the fatal mistake of telling the fellow ex-
actly what he wanted to know, and that was who
the letter was addressed to. The letter is ad-
dressed to Herr Schulz,' said this excellent
woman, and if there's any mistake he will find
it out when he opens it.' And with that she told
him to clear out. Which, having got all he
wanted, he was glad enough to do!”
“What was this chap like?” asked Robin.
The big man shrugged his shoulders.
“I can teach my servants discretion,” he re-
plied whimsically, “but I can't teach 'em to use
their eyes. Frau Wirth could remember nothing
about this fellow except that he wasn't tall and
wore a brown overcoat ...".
“ Jeekes!” cried Robin, slapping his thigh.
“He must have been actually coming away from
your place when I met him ..."


THE READING OF THE RIDDLE 287
“By George!” said the big man thoughtfully;
“I suspected some game of this kind when I
heard of the attempt to get at that letter of intro-
duction. If I only could have got hold of Marbran
this morning ..."
“Marbran!” said Robin thoughtfully. “When
I read Dulkinghorn's letter just now I thought I
had heard that name before. Of course - Victor
Marbran! That was it! I remember now! He
knew Hartley Parrish in the old days. Parrish
once said that Marbran would do him an injury
if he could. Who is Marbran, sir?"
All unconsciously he paid the tribute of 'sir'
to Herr Schulz's undoubted habit of command.
“ Victor Marbran," replied the big man, “is
Elias van der Spyck & Co., a firm which made mil.
lions in the war by trading with the enemy. In
every neutral country there were, of course, firms
which specialized in importing contraband for
the use of the Germans, but van der Spyck & Co.
brought the evasion of the blockade to a fine art.
They covered up their tracks, however, with such
consummate art that we could never bring any.
thing home to them. In fact, it was only after the
armistice that we began to learn something of
the immense scope of their operations. There was
a master brain behind them. But it was never


288
THE YELLOW STREAK
discovered. It strikes me, however, that we are
on the right track at last ..."
“ By Jove ...!” exclaimed Robin impres-
sively. “Hartley Parrish! ..."
The big man raised a hand.
“ Attendons!” he interposed suavely. “The
chain is not yet complete. I wonder what this van
der Spyck letter of Miss Trevert's contained that
made Victor Marbran and the secretary chap so
desperately anxious to get hold of it. For you
understand, don't you?” he said briskly, turning
to Robin, “that they were after that and that
alone. And they risked penal servitude in this
country to get it ..."
Robin nodded.
“ To save their necks in another," he said.
“I have the letter here,” mildly remarked the
doctor from his corner of the room. “ Miss Tre.
vert gave it to me!”
He produced a white envelope and drew from
it a folded square of slatey-blue paper. In great
excitement Robin sprang forward.
“ You're a downy bird, Doctor, I must say," he
remarked, “ fancy keeping it up your sleeve all
this time!"
He eagerly took the letter, spread it out on the
table, and read it through whilst Herr Schulz
looked over his shoulder,


THE READING OF THE RIDDLE 289
“ Code, eh? ” commented the big man, shaking
his head humorously. “If it beats Dulkinghorn,
it beats me!”
From his note-case Robin now drew a folded,
square of paper identical in colour with the letter
spread out before them.
“I found this on the carpet beside Parrish's
body," he said. “Look, it's exactly the same
paper ..."
Behind the tortoise-shell spectacles the big
man's eyes narrowed down to pin-points as he
caught sight of the sheet which Robin unfolded
and its series of slits.
“Aha!” he cried - and his voice rang out
clear through the room —“the grill, eh? Well,
well, to think of that!”
He took the slotted sheet of paper from Robin's
hands and laid it over the letter so that it exactly
covered it, edge to edge and corner to corner. In
this way the greater part of the typewriting in
the letter was covered over, and only the words
appearing in the slots could be read. And thus it
was that Robin Greve, Herr Schulz, and Dr. Col-
lingwood, leaning shoulder to shoulder, read the
message that came to Hartley Parrish in the
library at Harkings. , , ,


ELIAS VAN DER SPYCK & co.
GENERAL IMPORTERS"
ROTTERDAM
Rotterdam 25th Nov.
Codes
A.B.C.
Liebler's
Personal
Dear Mr. Parrish,
Your favour of even date to hand and contents
noted. The last delivery of steel was to time but we have had
lwarning from the railway authorities that labour troubles at the
docks are likely to delay future consignments. If you don't
mind we should prefer to settle the question of future
delivery by Nov. 27 as we have a board meeting on the 30th
inst. While we fully appreciate your own difficulties with
labour at home, you will understand that this is a question
which we cannot afford to adjourn sine die.
Yours faithfully,
pro ELIAS VAN DER SPYCK & co.


THE READING OF THE RIDDLE 293
this,” put in the doctor; “ apart from a little sick. -
ness she is really none the worse for her disagree-
able experience. If there was anything you
wanted to ask her ..."
“There is,” said Robin promptly. “Her reply
to one question,” he explained, turning to Herr
Schulz, “will give us the certainty that Parrish
was murdered and did not commit suicide. It
will not delay us more than five minutes to stop
at her hotel in passing. We will then call in at
my place. We should be at the Villa within half
an hour from now ..."
“Gentlemen,” said Herr Schulz as they pre-
pared to go, “I know my Mr. Victor Marbran.
You should all be armed.”
Robin produced the pistol he had taken from
Jeekes. Herr Schulz slipped a Browning pistol
into the breast-pocket of his jacket and, produc-
ing a long-barrelled service revolver, gave it to
the doctor.
“There are three of them, I gather, counting
the chauffeur," commented the big man, pull-
ing on his overcoat, “So we shall be equally
matched."
Darkness had fallen upon Rotterdam and the
lights from the houses made yellow streaks in
the water of the canal as the car, piloted by
Robin, drove the party to Mary Trévert's hotel.


294 THE YELLOW STREAK
They found the girl, pale and anxious, in the
lounge.
“Well, now," cried the doctor breezily, “and
how are you feeling? Did you take my advice
and have some tea?”
“What has happened?" asked the girl;“I have
been so anxious about you ..."
Her words were addressed to the doctor, but
she looked at Robin.
“Mary,” said Robin, “we are very near the
truth now. But there is one thing you can tell
us. It is very important. When you heard the
shot in the library at Harkings, did you notice
any other sound — before or after?"
The girl paused to think.
“ There was a sort of sharp cry and a thud..."
“I know. But was there anything else? Do try
and remember. It's so important!”
The girl was silent for a moment. Then she
said slowly:
“ Yes, there was, now I come to think of it.
Just as I tried the door- it was locked, you know
- there was a sort of hiss, harsh and rather
loud, from the room ..."
“ A sort of hiss, eh? Something like a sneeze?".
“ Yes. Only louder and ... and ...
harsher!”


296 THE YELLOW STREAK
took them to the big hotel where Robin had
booked a room. They all waited in the car whilst
he went to the office.
He was back in a minute, an open telegram in
his hand.
“I believe I've got in my pocket,” he cried, “ the
actual weapon with which Hartley Parrish was
killed!”
And he read from the telegram:
“Mastertons gunsmiths sold last July pair of
Browning automatics identical with that found
on Parrish to Jeekes who paid with Parrish's
cheque.”
The message was signed “ Manderton.”
At that moment a man wearing a black bowler
hat and a heavy frieze overcoat came hurrying
out of the hotel.
“Mr. Greve!” he cried as Robin, who was back
in the driving-seat, was releasing the brake. “ Did
you have the wire from the Yard saying I was
coming ?” he asked. “Probably I beat the tele-
graph, though. I came by air!”
Then he tipped his hat respectfully at Herr
Schulz.
“This is Detective-Inspector Manderton, of
Scotland Yard, sir,” said Robin.
The big man beamed a smile of friendly recog.
nition.


298 THE YELLOW STREAK
Mr. Manderton snorted.
"Something in the Secret Service,'" he res
peated disdainfully. “Well, I should say he was.
If you want to know, Mr. Greve, he's the head!"


CHAPTER XXVI
THE FIGURE IN THE DOORWAY
THE rain was coming down in torrents and the
night was black as pitch when, leaving the lights
of Rotterdam behind, the car swung out on to the
main road leading to the Villa Bergendal. Thanks
to a powerful headlight, Robin was able to get
a good turn of speed out of her as soon as they
were clear of the city. As they slowed down at
the gate in the side road Herr Schulz tapped him
on the shoulder.
« Better leave the car here and put the lights
out,” he counselled. “And Miss Trevert should
stay if the doctor here would remain to look after
her ..."
“ You think there'll be a scrap?” whispered
the doctor.
“With a man like Marbran, returned the
Chief, "you never know what may happen . ..!
“ Zere will be no faight,” commented the Dutch
police officer in lugubrious accents,“ my vriends,
ve are too laite ..."
But the Chief insisted that Mary should stay
behind and the doctor agreed to act as her es
cort. Then in single file the party proceeded up


300 THE YELLOW STREAK
the drive, Robin in front, then the Dutchman,
after him the Chief, and Mr. Manderton in the
rear.
They walked on the grass edging the avenue.
On the wet turf their feet made no sound. When
they came in view of the house, they saw it was in
darkness. No light shone in any window, and the
only sound to be heard was the melancholy patter
of the rain drops on the laurel bushes. When they
saw the porch looking black before them, they
left the grass and stepped gently across the drive,
the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet.
Robin led the way boldly under the porch and
laid a hand on the doorknob. The door opened
easily and the next moment the four men were in
the hall.
As Robin moved to the wall to find the electric
light switch, a torch was silently thrust into his
hand.
“Better have this, sir,” whispered Manderton.
“I have my finger on the switch now, but we'd
best wait to put the light up until we know where
they are. Where do we go first?”
“Into the sitting-room,” Robin returned.
Switching the torch on and off only as he re-
quired it, he crept silently over the heavy carpet
Yo the door of the room in which that morning
he had come upon Mary, Manderton remained at


THE FIGURE IN THE DOORWAY 301
the switch in the hall whilst the other two men
followed Robin through the door.
The room was in darkness. It struck chill; for
the fire had gone out. The beam of the torch flit-
ting from wall to wall showed the room to be
empty.
“I don't believe there's a soul in the house,"
whispered the Chief to Robin.
“ Ve are too laite; I have said it!” muttered
the Dutchman.
“There is another room leading out of this,”
replied Robin, turning the torch on to the blue
curtain covering the door leading into the office.
“We'll have a look in there and then try upstairs.
Manderton will give us warning if anybody
comes down ..."
So saying he drew the curtain aside and pushed
open the door. Instantly a gush of cold air blew
the curtain back in his face. Before he could dis-
entangle himself the door slammed to with a
crash that shook the house.
“That's done it!” muttered the Chief.
The three men stood and listened. They heard
the dripping of the rain, the soughing of the
wind, but no sound of human kind came to their
ears.
“ The place is empty," whispered the Chief.
“ They've cleared ,e!!


304 . THE YELLOW STREAK
The doctor, fetched in haste by Manderton,
examined the body. The man had been dead, he
said, for several hours. Mary remained in the
hall with Manderton while Robin and the Dutch
detective went over the house. There was no
trace either of Marbran or of the chauffeur. In
the two bedrooms which showed signs of occupa-
tion the beds had been made up, but the ward-
robes were empty.
“Marbran's made a bolt for it,” said Robin,
coming into the office where he had left the
Chief, “and taken everything with him ..."
“I gathered as much," answered that astute
gentleman, pointing at the fireplace. A pile of
charred paper filled the grate. “There's nothing
here, and I think we can wipe Mr. Victor Mar-
bran off the slate. I doubt if we shall see him
again. At any rate we can leave him to the
tender mercies of our black-bearded friend here.
As for us, I don't really see that there is anything
more to detain us here ..."
“But,” remarked Robin, looking at the still
figure on the floor, the face now mercifully cov-
ered by the doctor's white handkerchief, “surely
this is a confession of guilt. Has he left nothing
behind in writing? No account of the crime?”
“Not a thing,” responded the Chief," and I've


THE FIGURE IN THE DOORWAY 309
Robin Greve looked at her quickly. But Mary
had her eyes fixed seaward in contemplation of
a distant light that flared and died with persis-
tent regularity.
“My dear,” he answered, “I've only myself to
blame. When you told me you were going to
marry Hartley Parrish, I should have known
that you had your reasons and that those reasons
were good. I should have held my tongue ..."
This time the girl stole a glance at him. But
now he was gazing away to the horizon where the
light came and went.
“All this misunderstanding between us," he
went on, “came about because of what I said
in the billiard-room that afternoon ..."
The girl shook her head resolutely.
“No," she answered, “it was my fault. I'm a
proud devil, Robin, and what you said about
Hartley and ... and ... other women, Robin,
hurt and ... and made me angry. No, no, don't
apologize again. You and I are old enough
friends, my dear, to tell one another the truth.
You made me angry because what you said was
true. I was selling myself, selling myself with
my eyes open, too, and you've got a perfect right
never to speak to me again ..."
She did not finish the sentence but broke off.


310
THE YELLOW STREAK
Her voice died away quaveringly. Robin took her
hand in his.
“Dear,” he said, “ don't cry! It's over and
done with now ..."
Mary shook herself with an angry gesture.
“What's the good of telling me not to cry?”
she protested tearfully; “I've disgraced myself
in my own eyes as well as in yours. If you can't
forget what I was ready to do, I never shall ..."
Very gently the young man turned the girl to-
wards him.
“I'm not such a prig as all that,” he said. “We
all make mistakes. You know I understand the
position you were in. Parrish is dead. I shall
forget the rest ..."
Slowly the girl withdrew her hands from his
grasp.
“Yes,” she said wearily, "you will find it easy
to forget!”
She drew her fur closer about her neck and
turned her back on the sea.
“I must go down," she said. And waited for
the man to stand aside. He did not move and
their eyes met. Suddenly, like a child, she buried
her face in her arm flung out across his chest.
She began to sob bitterly.
“That afternoon ... in the billiard-room


THE FIGURE IN THE DOORWAY 311
..." she sobbed, "you will forget. s, that ...
too ... I suppose ..."
Robin took her face in his hands, a hot, tear-
stained face, and detached it from the sheltering
arm.
“My dear," he said, “I shall have to try to
forget it. But I know I shan't succeed. To the
end of my life I shall remember the kiss you gave
me. But we are farther apart than ever now!”
There was a great sadness in his voice. It ar-
rested the girl's attention as he dropped his
hands and turned back to the rail.
“Why?" she said in a low voice, without look-
ing up.
“Because," replied the young man steadily,
“ you're rich now, Mary ..."
The girl looked up quickly.
“ Will men ever understand women?" she
cried, a new note in her voice. She stepped for-
ward and, putting her two hands on the young
man's shoulders, swung him round to face her.
“I'm as poor as ever I was,” she said, " for
Hartley Parrish's money is not for me ..."
“Mary!” exclaimed the young man joyfully.
“Robin Greve,” cried the girl," do you mean
to tell me you'd stand there thinking I'd accept
money made like that ..."


CHAPTER XXVII
AN INTERRUPTION FROM BEYOND
SUDDEN frost had laid an icy finger on the gar-
dens of Harkings. The smooth green lawns were
all dappled with white and wore a pinched and
chilly look save ander the big and solemn firs
where the ground, warmed by its canopy of
branches and coveriet of cones, had thawed in
dark patches. The gravel walks were firm and
dry; and in the rosery the bare skeleton of the
pergolas stood out in clear-cut silhouette against
a white and woolly sky.
Overnight the frost had come. It had taken
even the birds by surprise. They hopped forlorn-
ly about the paths as though wondering where
they would get their breakfast. Robin Greve, idly
watching them from the library window, found
himself contrasting the cheerful winter land-
scape with the depressing conditions of the pre-
vious day. In wind and rain the master of Hark-
ings had been laid to rest in the quiet little
churchyard of Stevenish. The ceremony had been
arranged in haste, as soon as the coroner's jury
had viewed the body. Robin Greve, that morning
arrived from Rotterdam, Bude, and Mr. Bardy the


316
THE YELLOW STREAK
solicitor, had been the only mourners. As Robin
looked out upon the wintry scene, his mind re-
verted to the hurried funeral with its depressing
accompaniment of gleaming unbrellas, mud from
the freshly turned clay, and dripping trees.
Beneath the window of the library, its shat-
tered pane now replaced, a cluster of starlings
whistled gaily, darting bright-eyed glances, full
of anticipation, at the closed window.
"He used to give them crumbs every morning
after breakfast," said Mary. “See, Robin, how
they are looking up! It seems a shame to disap-
point them ..."
As though relieved to be quit of his dark
thoughts, Robin, with a glad smile, turned to the
girl. Dipping his hand into his pocket, he pro-
duced a hunk of bread and put it in her hand.
“You think of everything!” she said, smiling
back at him prettily.
He pushed up the window and she crumbled the
bread for the birds. He rested one hand on her
shoulder.
“He thought of everything, too,” was his com-
ment, “even down to the birds. It's extraordi-
nary! No detail was too small for him!...”
“He was remarkable, Robin," answered the
girl soberly; "there was something magnetic
about his personality that made people like him.


AN INTERRUPTION FROM BEYOND 317
Even now that he is dead, even in spite of what
we know, I can feel his attraction still. And the
whole house is impregnated with his personality.
Particularly this room. Don't you feel it? I don't
mind being here with you, Robin, but I shouldn't
like to be here alone. I was dreadfully frightened
on Sunday evening when I came here. And when
I saw the curtains move . . . oh! I thought my
heart would stop beating! Dear, I'm glad we are
giving this place up. I don't feel that I could ever
be happy here . . . even with you!"
“Poor devil!” said Robin. And then again he
said: “Poor devil!”
“It was terrible ... to die like that!" replied
Mary.
“It was terrible for him to lose you!” an-
swered the young man.
She gave his hand a little, tender squeeze, but
relinquished it quickly as the door opened.
Mr. Manderton was there, broad-shouldered
and burly. Behind came Dr. Romain with a pur-
ple nose and eyes watering with the cold, Horace
Trevert in plain clothes, Mr. Bardy, the solicitor,
plump, middle-aged, and prim, with a broad,
smooth-shaven face and an eyeglass on a black
silk riband. In the background loomed the large
form of Inspector Humphries, ruddy of cheek as
of hair. Lady Margaret did not appear.


818 THE YELLOW STREAK
Mr. Manderton slapped his bowler hat briskly
on a side table and with a little bow to Mary
walked to the desk.
“Now," said Mr. Manderton with a long,
shrewd look that comprehended the company, in-
dividually and collectively, and the entire room,
“ if Inspector Humphries will kindly close the
door, we will reconstruct the crime in the light
of the evidence we have collected."
He turned round to the desk and pulled back
the chair . . . Hartley Parrish's empty chair.
“ It is just on five o'clock on Saturday evening,
November 27," he began, “and growing dark out-
side. Mr. Parrish is sitting here”-he tapped
the chair — "with all the lights in the room
turned off except this one on the desk.”
Here he put a large hand on the reading-lamp.
“The assumption that Mr. Parrish spent the
afternoon, as he had spent the morning, over
papers in connection with the business of Horna-
way's in which he was interested is not correct.
Mr. Archer, one of Mr. Parrish's secretaries who
brought down a number of papers and letters for
Mr. Parrish to sign in the morning, states that
as far as Hornaway's or any other office business
was concerned, Mr. Parrish was through with it
by lunch. This is corroborated by the fact that no
business papers of this description, with the ex-


320 THE YELLOW STREAK
the sweep was ordered for Monday morning.
Owing to the smoke in the room Mr. Parrish
opened the window. His finger-prints were on
the inside of the window-frame and a small frag.
ment of white paint was still adhering to one of
his finger-nails.
“The window, then, was open as it is now. Mr.
Parrish sat at his desk, read through his will, and
wrote a letter to Miss Trevert informing her that,
under the will, she was left sole legatee. This let-
ter, with the will, was found on the desk after Mr.
Parrish's death. Presumably in view of the threat
against his life contained in this letter," — the
detective held up the slatey-blue paper,-“Mr.
Parrish had either in his pocket or, as I am more
inclined to think, lying on the desk in front of
him, his Browning automatic pistol. This pistol
was fitted with a Maxim silencer, an invention
for suppressing the report of a firearm, which
was sent to Mr. Parrish by a friend in America
some years ago and which he kept permanently
attached to the weapon."
Mr. Manderton came to an impressive full stop
and glanced round his circle of listeners. He gave
his explanations easily and fluently, but in a
plain, matter-of-fact tone such as a police con-
stable employs in the witness-box. He had mar.
shalled his facts well, and his measured advance


322
THE YELLOW STREAK
pushed back the chair and rose to his feet. They
saw he held a large automatic pistol in his hand.
“He has had this threatening letter, remember,
so he takes his pistol with him. And he reaches
the window ..."
The detective was at the window now, his back
to the room.
“He speaks to Jeekes, angrily, maybe — the
butler heard the sound of loud voices -- they have
words. And then ..."
There came a knock at the library door. It was
not a loud knock. It was in reality scarcely more
than a gentle tap. But it fell upon a silence of
Manderton's own creating, a rapt silence follow-
ing a pause which preceded the climax of his nar-
rative. So the discreet knocking resounded loud
and clear through the library.
“Who is that? What is it?” rapped out Dr.
Romain irritably.
“Don't let any one disturb us, Inspector!”
called out Horace Trevert to Inspector Humph-
ries, who had opened the door.
Bude's face appeared in the doorway. He had a
short altercation with the Inspector, who reso-
lutely interposed his massive form between the
butler and the room.
“What is it, Bude?" asked Robin, going to the
door,


326 THE YELLOW STREAK
this, with darkness falling and no sound but the
rustling rain, is the better way ...
Hartley Parrish was the man behind the great
syndicate which systematically ran the British block-
ade of Germany in the war. He financed Marbran and
the international riff-raff of profiteers with whom Mar-
bran worked. Parrish supplied the funds, often the
goods as well, - at any rate, until they tightened up
the blockade, - while Marbran and the rest of the
bunch in neutral countries did the trading with the
enemy.
Parrish was a deep one. I say nothing against him.
He was a kind employer to me and I played him false,
for which I have been bitterly punished. To have
swindled Victor Marbran - I count it as nothing
against him, for that heartless, cruel man is deserving
of no pity ...
Parrish was the heart and soul, brains and muscle
of the syndicate. He lurked far in the background.
Any and every trail which might possibly lead back
to him was carefully effaced. He was secure as long
as Marbran and one or two other big men in the busi-
ness kept faith with him. Now and then, when the
British Intelligence were too hot on the trail, Parrish
and Marbran would give away one of the small fry
belonging to the organization and thus stave off sus-
picion. They could do this in complete safety, for so
perfect was their organization that the small fry only
knew the small fry in the shallows and never the big
fish in the deep ...
But Hartley Parrish was in Marbran's hands. They
stood or fell together. Parrish knew this. But he was
a born gambler and insanely self-confident. He took a
chance with Marbran. It cost him his life...
All payments were made to Parrish. He was treas-


DEATH OF HARTLEY PARRISH 327
prer and banker of the syndicate. Money came in by
all sorts of devious routes, sometimes from as far
afield as South or Central America. Parrish distrib-
ated the profits. Everything was in his hands.
By the time the armistice came, the game had got
too hot. All the big fish except Marbran had cleared
out with their pile. But Marbran, like Parrish, was
a gambler. He stuck it out and stayed on.
Parrish played fair until the war was over. The
armistice, of course, put an end to the business. But
some months after the armistice a sum of £150,000
was paid to Parrish through a Spanish bank in settle-
ment, Marbran told me, for petrol indirectly deliv.
ered to the German Admiralty. Parrish pouched the
lot. Not a penny did Marbran get.
Parrish and Marbran were old friends. They were
young men together on the Rand gold-fields in the
early days. In fact, I believe they went out to South
Africa together as penniless London lads. But Mar-
bran hated Parrish, though Parrish had, I believe,
been his benefactor in many ways. Marbran was
fiercely envious of the other because he realized that,
starting with an equal chance, Parrish had left him
far behind. Everything that Parrish touched pros-
pered, while Marbran was in perpetual financial
straits. He was Parrish's equal in courage, but not in
judgment.
Parrish calculated that Marbran would not dare to
denounce him. He had always taken the lead in their
schemes and he affected to disregard Marbran alto-
gether. So he left the latter's letters unanswered and
laughed at his threats. He was quite sure that Mar-
bran would never risk losing his pile by giving Par-
rish away, for they were, of course, both British sub-
jects and both in it together ...
Marbran always distrusted Parrish, and long before


328 THE YELLOW STREAK
the breach came, he picked on me to act the spy on my
employer. I, too, was born a gambler, but, like Mar-
bran, I lacked the lucky touch which made Parrish a
millionaire. Speculation proved my ruin. I have often
thanked my God on my bended knees — as I shall do
again to-night before I pass over — that my insane
folly has ruined no one but myself ...
Already, when Hartley Parrish engaged me, I was
up to the neck in speculation. Up to that time, how-
ever, I had managed to keep my head above water,
but the large salary on which Parrish started me
dazzled me. I tried a flutter in oil on a much larger
scale than anything I had hitherto attempted, with the
result that one day I found myself with a debt of
nine hundred pounds to meet and no assets to meet
it with. And I was two hundred pounds in debt to
Hartley Parrish's petty cash account, which I kept.
It was Victor Marbran who came to my rescue.
Parrish had sent me over to Rotterdam to fetch some
papers from Marbran. At this time I knew nothing of
Parrish's blockade-running business. Parrish never
took me into his confidence about it and the whole of
the correspondence went direct to him through a num-
ber of secret channels with which I only gradually
became acquainted behind his back.
I had met Marbran several times in London and
also at Rotterdam. It had struck me that he had
formed a liking for me. On this particular visit to
Rotterdam Marbran took me out to dinner and en-
couraged me to speak about myself. He was very
sympathetic, and this, coupled with the wine I had
taken, led me to open my heart to him. Without giv-
ing myself away, I let him understand that I was in
considerable financial difficulties, which I set down to
the high cost of living as the result of the war.
onfidence irect toibh I on


DEATH OF HARTLEY PARRISH 329
Without a word of warning Marbran pulled out
his cheque-book.
"How much do you want,” he asked, “to put you
straight?”
Nine hundred pounds, I told him.
He wrote the cheque at once there at the table. He
would advance me the money, he said, and put me
down for shares in a business in which he was inter-
ested. It was a safe thing and profits were very high.
I could repay him at my leisure.
In this way I became a shareholder in Parrish's
blockade-running syndicate. The return I was to
make was to spy on my employer and to report to
Marbran the letters which Parrish received and the
names of the people whom he interviewed.
Of course, Marbran did not propose this plan at
once. When I took leave of him that night, I re-
member, I all but broke down at the thought of his
unsolicited generosity. I have had a hard life, Miss
Trevert, and his seeming kindness broke me all up.
But I might have known.
I cashed Marbran's cheque and put back the two
hundred pounds I had taken from the petty cash ac-
count. But I went on speculating. You see, I did
not believe Marbran's story about the shares he said
he would put me down for. I thought it was a chari-
table tale to spare my feelings. So I plunged once
more in the confident hope of recovering enough to
repay my debt to Marbran.
A month later Marbran sent me a cheque for one
hundred pounds. He said it was the balance of fifteen
hundred pounds due to me as profits on my shares
less the nine hundred pounds I owed him and five
hundred pounds for my shares. But my speculations
had by this time gone wrong again, and I was heart-


330
THE YELLOW STREAK
ily glad presently to receive a further cheque for two
hundred pounds from Marbran. From that time on I
got from Marbran sums varying between one hundred
and fifty pounds and five hundred pounds a month.
When Marbran made me his shameful offer, I re-
jected it with indignation. But I was fast in the trap.
Marbran explained to me in great detail and with the
utmost candour the working of the Parrish syndicate.
He let me know very plainly that I was as deeply
implicated as Parrish and he. I was a shareholder;
I had received and was receiving my share of the
profits. In my distress and shame I threatened to
expose the pair of them. Had I known the source of
his money, I told him, I should never have accepted it.
At that Marbran laughed contemptuously.
“You tell that yarn to the police," he sneered,
"and hear what they say!”
And then I realized that I was in the net.
I make no excuses for myself. I shall make none
to the Great Judge before whom in a little while I
shall appear. I had not the moral force to resist Mar-
bran. I did his bidding: I continued to take his
money and I held my peace.
And then came the breach between Parrish and
Marbran. I was the cause of it. But for me, his
trusty spy, Marbran would have known nothing of
this payment of £150,000 which Parrish received
from Spain, and this tragedy would not have hap-
pened. God forgive me ...
Marbran appealed to Parrish in vain. What he
wrote I never knew, for, shortly after, Parrish quietly
and without any explanation took the confidential
work out of my hands. I believe he suspected then
who Marbran's spy was. But he said nothing to me
of his suspicions at that time ...


DEATH OF HARTLEY PARRISH 331
Finally, Marbran came to London. It was on Tues-
day of last week. I had been up in Sheffield on busi-
ness, and on my return I found Marbran waiting for
me at my rooms.
He was like a man possessed. Never before have I
witnessed such an outburst of ungovernable rage. Par-
rish, it appears, had declined to see him. He swore
that Parrish should not get the better of him if he had
to kill him first. I can see Marbran now as he sat on
my bed, his livid face distorted with fury.
"I'll give him a last chance," he cried, “and then,
by God, let our smart Alec look out!"
This sort of talk frightened me. I knew Marbran
meant mischief. He was a bad man to cross. I was des-
perately afraid he would waylay Parrish and bring
down disaster on the three of us. I did my utmost to
put the idea of violence out of his mind. I begged
him to content himself with trying to frighten Parrish
into paying up before trying other means.
My suggestion seemed to awaken some old memory
in Marbran's mind.
“By Gad, Jeekes," he said, after a moment's
thought, "you've given me an idea. Parrish has a
yellow streak. He's scared of a gun. I saw it once,
years ago, in a roughhouse we got into at Krugersdorp
on the Rand. Damn it, I know how to bring the yellow
dog to heel, and I'll tell you how we'll do it ...!!
He then unfolded his plan. He would send Parrish
a last demand for a settlement, threatening him with
death if he did not pay up. The warning would reach
Parrish on the following Saturday. Marbran would
contrive that he should receive it by the first post.
As soon as possible thereafter I was to go to Parrish
boldly and demand his answer.
“And you'll take a gun,” Marbran said, peering


332
THE YELLOW STREAK
at me with his cunning little eyes, and you'll show it.
And if at the sight of it you don't get the brass, then
I don't know my old pal, Mister Hartley Parrish,
Esquire!”
The proposal appalled me. I knew nothing of
Hartley Parrish's “yellow streak.” I knew him only
as a hard and resolute man, swift in decision and ruth-
less in action. Whatever happened, I argued, Parrish
would discharge me and there was every prospect of
his handing me over to the police as well.
Marbran was deaf to my reasoning. I had nothing
to fear, he protested. Parrish would collapse at the
first sign of force. And as for my losing my job, Mar-
bran would find me another and a better one in his
office at Rotterdam.
Still I held out. The chance of losing my position,
even of being sent to gaol, daunted me less, I think,
than the admission to Parrish of the blackly ungrate-
ful rôle I had played towards him. In the end I told
Marbran to do his dirty work himself.
But I spoke without conviction. I realized that Mar-
bran held me in a cleft stick and that he realized it,
too. He wasted no further time in argument. I knew
what I had to do, he said, and I would do it. Other-
wise ...
He left me in an agony of mental stress. At that
time, I swear to Heaven, Miss Trevert, I was deter-
mined to let Marbran do his worst rather than lend
myself to this odious blackmailing trick, my own
suggestion, as I bitterly remembered. But for the rest
of the week his parting threat rang in my ears. Un-
less he heard by the following Sunday that I had
confronted Parrish and called his bluff, as he put it,
the British police should have word, not only of Par-
rish's activities in trading with the enemy, but of
mine as well.


DEATH OF HARTLEY PARRISH 333
It was no idle threat. Parrish and Marbran had
put men away before. I could give you the names ...
It is quite dark now. It must be an hour since
Greve took you away. Soon he will be back with the
police to arrest me and I must have finished by then,
finished with the story, finished with life ....
Last week I worked at Parrish's city office. I told
you how he kept me off his confidential work. On
Saturday morning I went round to the house in St.
James's Square to see whether Marbran had really
sent his warning. Archer, my colleague, who was act-
ing as confidential secretary in my stead, was there.
Parrish was at Harkings, he told me. Archer was
going down by car that morning with his mail. It
included two “blue letters" which Archer would, ac-
cording to orders, hand to Parrish unopened.
These “blue letters,” as we secretaries used to call
them, written on a striking bluish paper, were the
means by which all communications passed between
Parrish and Marbran on the syndicate's business.
They were drafted in conventional code and came to
Parrish from all parts of Europe and in all kinds of
ways. No one saw them except himself. By his strict
injunctions, they were to be opened only by himself
in person.
When Archer told me that two “blue letters” had
come, I knew that Marbran had kept his word. Though
my mind was not made up, instinct told me I was
going to play my part ...
I could not face the shame of exposure. I was
brought up in a decent English home. To stand in
the dock charged with prolonging the sufferings of
our soldiers and sailors in order to make money was
a prospect I could not even contemplate.
I thought it all out that Saturday morning as I
stood at the dressing-table in my bedroom by the open


DEATH OF HARTLEY PARRISH 335
“Who's there?” he cried out in alarm.
His voice shook, and I could see his hand tremble
in the lamplight as he clutched at the desk. Then I
knew that he was badly frightened, and the discovery
gave me courage.
“Are you going to settle with Marbran or are you
not?” I said.
At that he peered forward. All of a sudden his.
manner changed.
“What in hell does this mean, Jeekes ?”
His voice quavered no longer. It was hard and
menacing.
But I had burnt my boats behind me now.
“It means," I answered boldly, “that you've got
to pay up. And you've got to pay up now!”
In a couple of quick strides he was round the desk
and coming at me as I stood with my chest pressing
against the window-sill. His hands were thrust in his
jacket pockets. His face was red with anger.
“You dawggorn dirty little rathole spy," — he spat
the words at me in a low, threatening voice, — “I
guessed that lowdown skunk Marbran had been getting
at some of my people!”
His voice rose in a sudden gust of passion.
“You rotten little worm! You'd try and bounce
me, would you! You've come to the wrong shop for
that, Mr. Spying Jeekes ..."
His manner was incredibly insulting. So was the
utter contempt with which he looked at me. This
man, who had trembled with fear at the unknown, re-
covered his self-control on finding that the menace
came from the menial, the hireling, he despised. I felt
the blood rush in a hot flood to my head. I lost all
self-control. I screamed aloud at him.
“There's no bounce about it this time! If you
don't pay up, you know what to expect!"


336
THE YELLOW STREAK
I had been holding my pistol out of his sight below
the window-ledge, but on this I swung it up and
levelled it at him.
He sprang back a pace, the colour fading on the
instant from his face, his mouth twisted awry in a
horrid paroxysm of fear. Even in that subdued light
I could see that his cheeks were as white as paper.
But then in a flash his right hand went up. I saw
the pistol he held, but before I could make a move-
ment there was a loud, raucous hiss of air and a
bullet whistled past my ear into the darkness of the
gardens. How he missed me at that range I don't
know, but, seeing me standing there, he came at me
again with the pistol in his hand ...
And then you, Miss Trevert, cried out, “Hartley,"
and rattled the handle of the door. Your cry merged
in a deafening report. Parrish, who was quite close
to me, and advancing, stopped short with a little
startled exclamation, his eyes reproachful, full of
surprise. He stood there and swayed, looking at me
all the time, then crashed backwards on the floor. And
I found myself staring at the smoking pistol in my
hand ...
It was your scream that brought me to my senses.
My mind cleared instantly. I knew I must act quickly.
The house would be alarmed directly, and before that
happened, I must be clear of the grounds. Yet I
knew that before I went I must do something to make
myself safe ...
I stood at the window staring down at the dead
man. His eyes were terrible. Like a suicide he looked,
I thought. And then it flashed across my mind that
only one shot had been heard and that our pistols
were identical and fired the same ammunition. The
silencer! The silencer could save me. With that re-


340 : THE YELLOW STREAK
rish's affairs in the light of the information
which Mr. Greve obtained in Rotterdam, but I
have reason to believe that he kept his interest in
Hornaway's and his — ahem!- other activities
entirely separate. If this can be definitely estab-
lished to my own satisfaction and to yours, my
dear Miss Trevert, I see no reason why you
should not modify your decision at least in re-
spect of Mr. Parrish's interest in Hornaway's.”
Mary Trevert looked at Robin and then at the
solicitor.
“No!" she said; “not a penny as far as I am
concerned. With Mother the case is different. I
told her last night of my decision in the matter.
She disapproves of it. That is why she is not here
to-day. But my mind is made up.”
Mr. Bardy adjusted his eyeglass in his eye and
gazed at the girl. His face wore an expression of
pain mingled with compassion.
“I will see Lady Margaret after lunch," he said
rather stiffly.
Then the door opened and Bude appeared.
“Luncheon is served, Miss!"
He stood there, a portly, dignified figure in
sober black, solemn of visage, sonorous of voice,
a living example of the triumph of established
tradition over the most savage buffetings of Fate.