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SUSPECTED


SUSPECTED
BY
GEORGE DILNOT
AUTHOR OF “THE GRELL MYstERY,”
“THE MAELSTROM,” ETC.
ſº
º
NEW YORK
IEDWARD J. CLODE


A sº. 4, s
(i.e.:
, 112-9
Corrright, 1920, By
EDWARD J. C. L. O DE
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


suspecteD
CELAPTER I
WICE in his career had Jimmie Silverdale
redoubled three no trumps without the
privilege of justifying his confidence. It
was the sudden arrival of a Zeppelin bomb
that had just put a peremptory end to the rub-
ber on the first occasion. The second time was
when Sir Harold Saxon was murdered.
Jimmie was the “crime merchant” of the
Daily Wire. Crime—in the newspaper sense
—was one of the main objects of his existence.
There are distinctions in the newspaper code.
For Bill Jones to bludgeon his wife to death
in a drunken fit is no crime. It is a venial of.
fense that has no journalistic significance. If
the Archbishop of York murdered his cook with
his crozier, it would be a crime—more, it would
be a “big story.” .
It would be doing Jimmie Silverdale an in-
justice to suppose that life held no other
interests for him. He viewed the world with a
vivacious cynicism tinged with extraordinary
enthusiasms. There was for example the girl—
but she will find her proper place in this nar-
1


SUSPECTED 3
blue serge, back in his chair and grinned pro-
vokingly at the Scotch sub-editor who had dou-
bled his call. *
“This is where I’ve got you hornsnaggered,
old lad,” he observed. “I’ll redouble.”
Fate saved the Caledonian. It took the shape
of a small boy who burst hurriedly into the
room. “You’re wanted on the telephone, Mr.
Silverdale. Gentleman won’t give his name.
Says it’s most particular and urgent.”
Jimmie Silverdale was used to mysterious
telephone calls. A short conversation over the
wire sent him tearing away in a taxi, utterly
forgetful of his unfinished game of bridge.
Ten minutes later, he descended at a small tea-
room off Piccadilly Circus and greeted a burly
red-faced man who was quietly munching toast.
“Cheer-oh, Wing. How goes it?”
“Bearing up, Silver. What are you going to
have? Tea?”
The other gave his order and, as the waitress
departed, leaned across the table. “What’s the
game, old bean? You’ve pulled me away for
something else than tea. I’m liable to be peev-
ish, if this is another stumer. You Scotland
Yard folk get queer ideas of what a big story
should be.”
“I’ve got the goods, Silver. This is a big
thing. Ever hear of Sir Harold Saxon?”
“The aëroplane man who pulled a million or
so out of the war?”


4 SUSPECTED
“That’s the lad. He's croaked—done in—
murdered!”
Silverdale put down his cup abruptly. He
seemed to stiffen in his chair. “Get on with
it,” he said sharply.
“Big enough for you, eh?” chuckled the
other ponderously. “Wait till I’ve finished.
I’ve only got the bare details of the first re-
port as yet. Nobody knows much of Saxon.
He sprang out of nowhere at the beginning of
the war—all that is known is that he had spent
ten or twelve years in America. He was a ca-
pable carpenter and got a job at a small ačro-
plane factory on the south coast. Somehow he
scraped together a few hundred pounds, came
to London and bought a disused parish hall.
He painted “Saxon's Aérôplane Works’ on it
himself, engaged a dozen workpeople and
pulled off a bluff at the Ministry of Munitions.
Those were the days when aéroplanes were
wanted badly. Anyway, by credit, by borrow-
ing, by sheer hard work, he made good. In six
months he was employing two hundred hands,
in a year two thousand. In two years he was
a millionaire and a knight.”
Silverdale shifted his position impatiently.
“We can dig all this biographical stuff out of
the cuttings. Get down to the yarn.”
“Sure. I’m coming to it. The Saxon Works
are down Wimbledon way. He was popular
with everyone, from works manager to the


SUSPECTED 5
office boy. But about his private history he
never said a word, and he has lived for this
last couple of years in a flat at St. Roman’s
Place. He had one deaf old woman servant who
slept in and a maid came in to help her during
the day—not that there was much to do for he
had most of his meals out. -
“Yesterday, this old woman received a wire
summoning her to the death-bed of her sister
at Bristol. She found her sister well and
hearty, and returned to town this morning con-
siderably mystified. She reached the flat at
midday and found everything apparently as she
left it—until she went into the dining-room.
There she saw Saxon tied hand and foot with
the curtain hangings, which had been roughly
torn down, to a heavy chair.
“His head was sagging on his chest and she
thought he had fainted until she tried to arouse
him.
“Becoming still more alarmed, as she failed,
she rushed out and called a policeman who,
after a hasty inspection, summoned a doctor.
Then it became clear what had happened.
Saxon had been stabbed—stabbed to the heart
with a long, thin stiletto-shaped instrument that
had been thrust with force up to the hilt. It
was, in fact, a woman’s hatpin.”
Silverdale jotted two or three notes on the
back of an envelope. He was beginning to en-
joy himself. Yet there was no callousness in


6 SUSPECTED
his attitude to the murder. It was just a “big
story”—a story that, if he could keep it ex-
clusive to the Wire, would ensure heart-burn-
ings and alarms in the dovecots of newspaper-
land. Perhaps, also, he felt some of the joy of
an artist who has a task in hand.
“Good stuff,” he commented. “Who’s on
the job for the Yard?”
“Rack, the divisional man, handled it at first.
Our people have sent down Garfield to take
charge. What do you make of it, Silver?”
The journalist shrugged his shoulders. He
found this detective sergeant from the Scotland
Yard Registry useful. It was just a faint pos-
sibility that others might also find him useful.
Anyway, on a big story, Silverdale would not
have trusted his own brother. He shrugged his
shoulders.
“Too early to say anything. Where shall I
find Garfield?”
“Down at the flat, looking into things. Mind
you, Silver, don’t let 'em get any hint that
you’ve seen me.”
“I’m not a fool, Wing. And don’t forget that
I want this to myself for a little.”
Wing chuckled. “I get you, Steve,” he
quoted.
And in a quarter of an hour, Jimmie was
slapping a harassed news editor on the back.
“Send out an S.O.S. to the printers, laddie.
I’ve got a beat—a peach of a story that'll make


SUSPECTED 7
your hair curl. In a million happy homes to-
morrow our readers will be congratulating
themselves on taking the paper that gets the
news.”
“Cut out the exuberance, Jimmie,” growled
his superior, trying vainly to rub his injured
back, “and tell me what's biting you.”


CHAPTER II
WHENEVER a mysterious crime develops Scot-
land Yard can usually afford time to organize
its net for the confusion of the culprit. Its
one aim is detection and arrest. Now a great
daily newspaper also organizes, but what it
does has to be done swiftly—it must have some-
thing to show its readers at breakfast time. It
cannot wait. If it holds up a development of
news while waiting for a coup it does so at the
risk of a rival scoring a “beat.”
So Jimmie Silverdale found himself in for a
busy evening. Every available man was thrown
on to the story. Two dashed out to piece to-
gether such, details as they might find of
Saxon’s career. Another was sent to haunt
Scotland Yard on the off chance of picking up
stray ends of information. A fourth went to
Grape Street police station on a similar mis-
sion. Still another held himself available to act
as general aide to Jimmie. The foreign editor
was drafting cables to New York to have Sax-
on’s record investigated in America. The art
editor had his minions scouring London for
photographs.
Jimmie, his right shoulder hunched over his
ear, his hair disheveled, was scrawling in fran-



8


SUSPECTED 9
tic haste a vivid story of the affair so far as he
already knew it. A sub-editor stood at his
elbow and hurried the sheets away as they
flashed from under his hand.
The reporter finished, handed the last folio
to the waiting sub, and pressed a bell.
“Boy,” he yelled impatiently, “get me a
taxi.”
A lad, catching the feverish excitement which
pervades a newspaper office when there is a big
story on the move, scurried to the lift. Jimmie
slipped into his overcoat and rolled a fresh ciga-
rette.
“We'll move on to St. Ronan's Place, Harry,
me lad,” he said to the man who had been de-
tailed as his assistant. “Perhaps we can nob-
ble Garfield.”
There was only one thing in the world that
could have diverted Jimmie Silverdale’s mind
from the work he was engaged upon at that
moment. And with the usual perversity of des-
tiny it occurred as he reached the hall door.
The commissionaire thrust a letter into his
hand.
“Just brought by a district messenger, sir.”
Jimmie kept his cab waiting while he tore it
open. He read it twice and then more slowly
and reflectively.
“Dear Mr. Silverdale,” it ran. “You once
told me that if ever the time came when I might


10 SUSPECTED
need your help or advice you would come to
me. I need you now. I am in great doubt and
distress and know no one other than yourself
to whom I can turn. Can you see me immedi-
ately? I shall be waiting outside Charing Cross
Post Office at seven o’clock. Do come—for
God’s sake, come!—Hilary Sloane.”
The semi-hysterical appeal was as unlike the
one girl in the world whom Silverdale hoped
might in time be something closer than a friend
to him, as it was possible to conceive. It was
a couple of years since they had first met in
France—she a nurse, he an officer in the intel-
`-ligence branch, and the acquaintanceship had
developed and ripened since the war ended.
Always he remembered her as he first saw
her one fragrant spring morning in France.
She had stood under a big beech-tree outside
the hospital with the sunlight creeping many
patterned on to the blue painted ground. All in
white she was, and the masses of her soft dark
hair framed the dainty oval of her face flushed
delicately by good health and open air.
Jimmie, who was a judge, did not fail to mark
the personality in the soft curves of the face—
a personality that was emphasized in the firmly
molded chin and the depth of the gray eyes,
* whether they were alight with mischief or aglow
with sympathy with some sufferer broken on
the wheel of war.


SUSPECTED 11
Of her family, of her pre-war associations he
knew little. Their talk had never drifted in that
direction and Silverdale was the most incurious
person on earth apart from his profession. He
knew that she had breeding; he knew that she
had nerve—any woman who had faced the red
horrors of war as she had done must have nerve.
She lived, a bachelor girl, with a friend some-
where in Chelsea where they shared a studio
and dabbled in art. Art, she had told Jimmie
Once, was her career. Very cleverly, with much
gentleness, she had side-tracked him whenever
he showed symptoms of falling into the mistake
of urging another career upon her—a career
that would have necessitated a change of
Ilame.
“Don’t get sloppy, Jimmie,” was her warn-
ing, and Jimmie was content to wait.
This, then, was the girl who for some reason
had lost her grip on herself sufficiently to send
that frenzied appeal for help. Silverdale's
brow was puckered with a deep frown as he
stepped into the taxi-cab. “I’m going to turn
You out at Charing Cross, Harry,” he an-
nounced. “You’ll have to walk down to St.
Ronan's Place. Get hold of Garfield if you
can and see what you can dig out of him. He's
a tight nut but he owes me one or two things
and he might give us a line. I’ll be with you in
twenty minutes or so.”
Harry grunted assent. He was a silent man


12 SUSPECTED
by nature, and Silverdale preferred to have
silent assistants on matters of this nature.
At Charing Cross as the cab slowed up they
both descended. Jimmie strolled slowly along
to the point where he was to meet the girl.
Through the crowd he saw her hurrying to meet
him, a slim, lithe figure in brown.
“You came, Mr. Silverdale,” she exclaimed
as she extended her hand. “I knew you would.”
He held her hand in his for a moment and a
Smile flashed across his face. “It used to be
Jimmie once. Why this formality?”
A dimple rippled momentarily in her cheek.
“Well, Jimmie, if you like. I’m glad you’ve
come.” He saw a hint of anxiety in the gray
eyes. “You are the one man in the world who
can help me now. Where can we go? I want
to talk.” -
“I’ve got a taxi here. Come along. No place
like a taxi when you want to be absolutely sure
you’re not overheard.” He stood aside to let
her take her seat. “I’d like to take you out to
dinner but duty forbids. I’ve got a job on.”
She glanced at him quickly, almost apprehen-
sively. “What sort of a job? Has something
happened?” . .
“My dear girl, when one’s on a daily paper
something’s always happening. It’s a dog’s
life anyway. But don’t let's talk shop. Get
along, driver. Anywhere you like for ten
minutes.”


SUSPECTED 13
He stole a look at her face. She was grave,
almost despondent. Her lower lip was quiver-
ing though he could see she was making a brave
effort to steady herself.
“You’ve been all shaken up, Hilary,” he said.
He clasped her small gloved hand in his own
and held it tightly. Time was when she would
have withdrawn it hurriedly with a laughing
reproof. Now she sat still and silent. There
were dark rings round her eyes and she was
trembling.
“My dear girl! What on earth's the mat-
ter?”
She laughed a trifle tremulously. “Nothing is
really wrong, but I sent for you because—be-
cause—oh, because I wanted a man to give me
some advice and I knew you would help.”
“Sure!” he agreed.
She pulled her hand away from him. “Oh,
Jimmie, you must think me an utter fool. I’m
behaving like a school-girl. I can’t tell you any-
thing. I know you’ll not ask questions. If
you’ll help me you’ll have to do it blindly with-
out trying to find out why. Will you?”
He laughed. “My dear girl, if I didn’t know
you better I’d think you were qualifying as a
heroine for the moving pictures. What's all
this parade of mystery? You can tell me just
as much or just as little as you like and I'll
do it. I’m not a demonstrative man, Hilary,
but you'll believe that I mean it.”


14 SUSPECTED
As has been said, Jimmie Silverdale was an
incurious man in many ways. Yet it cost him
something to give that promise. Somehow all
the girl’s gayety, all her joy in life, all her com-
petent self-possession seemed to have vanished.
He longed to take her in his arms as if she were
a child to find out what was worrying her and to
soothe and comfort her.
Her face showed the relief she felt. “Thank
you,” she said quietly. “You’re a sport, Jim-
mie. I want you to help me get away out of
London—to America for choice, but anyway
out of London. I want to go away some-
where where I can’t be found—where no
one will know where I’ve gone nor how
I’ve gone. You ought to know how to do it
for me.”
He stared blankly at her. “You want to go
away?” -
“Yes. Immediately. No bother about pass-
ports or booking passages. Nora Dring and I
want to disappear—to vanish from the face of
the earth as if we’d never existed. Jimmie”—
she clutched at his sleeve—“you must help us.
You must. We must get away from London at
once—to-night if possible. It is important—
vital. You’ll do it—Jimmie?”
The man drew a deep breath. “I’ll do any-
thing you say, Hilary. But why—?”
She held up a warning forefinger. “No ques-
tions. You promised.”


CHAPTER III
HILARY SLOANE was much in Jimmie Silver-
dale’s mind as he made his way to St. Ronan’s
Place. She had ever seemed to him a girl with-
out the least touch of that feminine lack of bal-
ance that for want of a better word is classed as
hysteria. Why should she want to vanish?
Whatever was at the back of her mind, it
was not triviality. Some great emergency had
arisen to change her as she had changed. He
had promised to ask no questions but he had
not promised not to think.
Was she playing with him? The speculation
crossed his mind, though he loyally tried to dis-
miss it. She had never kissed him before—in-
deed, she had tried to keep their association on
the platonic plane of two chums of the same sex.
She had always tried to avoid the intrusion of
the attraction of man or woman. Was she play-
ing with him?
“Good heavens—don’t I know her well
enough to know that she’s dead straight?”
snarled Jimmie, answering his own thought
aloud. “Only a fool would doubt her.”
He was approaching the foot of St. Roman's
Place and saw Harry coming towards him.
The other reporter shrugged his shoulders as
* .
16


SUSPECTED 17
they met. “Nothing doing, Silver. The police
are in the flat, but they’ve got their mouths shut
tight as oysters.” - -
“Seen Garfield?” asked Jimmie.
“Can’t get near him. Rack came out of the
place just now. Very genial and nice when I
tackled him, but didn’t know anything about
any murder. Said he’d just called up to visit
a sick friend.”
Jimmie chuckled as he rolled a cigarette.
The problem of Hilary Sloane had gone for the
moment and he was once more a newspaperman
on the warpath.
“Like that, is it? They’re asses if they think
they can keep a story like this sealed up tight.
The days of the censor are over. We’ve got to
get busy. See that board up there?” He
pointed to a notice:
WELL-APPOINTED FLATS TO LET
APPLY CARETAKER
No. 3 ST. RONAN's PLACE
“What about it?” asked the other blankly.
“This,” said Jimmie. “We’ll interview that
caretaker and see if we can’t take a flat for a
week or so near that of the late lamented Harold
Saxon. It’ll be some policeman who'll prevent
us going to and fro from our own flat-eh,
Harry?” - -
The interview with the caretaker proved


18 SUSPECTED
fruitful. For the sum of £20, Jimmie found
himself the tenant for a period of two weeks of
No. 31b, St. Ronan's Place, and on the oppo-
site side of a corridor was the flat in which still
lay the dead body of Harold Saxon.
A plain-clothes police officer was standing at
the gate of the lift. He stared blankly at the
two journalists. Silverdale smiled on him
blandly.
“’Evening, Wade. Mr. Garfield upstairs?”
Wade shrugged his burly shoulders. “I
don’t know anything, Mr. Silverdale,” he pro-
tested. *
“I’ll bet you don’t,” agreed Jimmie with a
grin. “I didn’t ask you anything.”
“How'd you get on to this, anyway?” asked
the other. “We’re supposed to have kept the
shutters up on this job.”
“My dear Watson,” said Silverdale mock-
ingly, “the inefficiency of the police force is
notorious, even in so simple a matter as keep-
ing close the murder of a munition millionaire.
I’m here, as you see. What about it?”
“Cut out the kid stuff,” said Wade. “I’ve
heard all about those inefficient police methods.
You’ve got a nose on this kind of thing, Silver,
but the guv'nor won’t be pleased to see you.”
He was standing in front of the lift, so that he
barred their entrance. “I think on the whole
you’d better not butt in for a little while.
See?”


SUSPECTED 19 -
“Meaning you're going to prevent us going
up?”
“Sorry, old Sport. I was told to be particular
and see that no one interrupted.”
“Do you know I’m a tenant in this block of
flats?”
“He’s a great little kidder,” said Wade, ad-
dressing the air. “How long have you been
living here, Silver?” he continued genially.
“Go and fetch the caretaker, Harry,” said
Jimmie. He thrust his hands in his pockets
and with legs wide apart whistled cheerfully.
Wade surveyed him a little anxiously. He had
reason to know Silverdale and he had rarely
known him frustrated.
“You don’t expect to get by on that bluff, do
you?”
“Bluff l’” Silverdale was scornful. “You’ve
got another guess coming. I don’t bluff. I’m
a tenant in these flats, Wade, and a peaceful,
law-abiding citizen. These arbitrary police
methods don’t go down with me as you will find
out. Hello—here's the caretaker. Now, my
man, tell this gentleman that I’m a tenant in
this place. He won’t believe me.”
“That’s so, sir,” said the caretaker.
“Well, I’m dodgasted.” Wade was stag-
gered and showed it. “Here—my old son—
how long has Mr. Silverdale lived here?”
The big moon face of the caretaker looked
placidly into the eyes of the detective. What-
-


20 SUSPECTEDT
ever methods Silverdale had employed other
than the payment of rent had been thoroughly
effective. w
“Mr. Silverdale has been a valued tenant of
ours for some time,” he lied unblushingly.
“That’s me,” said Jimmie. “Run us up,
Wade, like a good fellow since you’re acting as
engineer-in-chief.” -
Wade made a grimace, but obeyed.
Silverdale and his colleague made their way
into their new premises and in two minutes
had established an observation post from the
fanlight of the front door with the aid of a
table and kitchen chairs. Watchful waiting was
the policy Jimmie had in mind for the moment.
While the police were in Saxon's flat, it would
be vain to attempt to extract any information
from Saxon’s housekeeper. Meanwhile, much
might be gained by observing the visitors in and
out.
Suddenly the door of the opposing flat flung
open and a tall jovial-faced man emerged. Jim-
mie hurriedly descended from his perch, pushed
away the table and unlatched the door.
“Come right in, Garfield,” he said.
Chief-Detective Inspector Garfield was not
the sort of man the average person would have
picked on as a disciple of Sherlock Holmes. He
had an open, frank, kindly face, and twinkling
blue eyes. From his spats upwards, he was a
genial, well-dressed, business man. And like


SUSPECTED 21
most detectives outside the books, he regarded
his work as a matter of common sense—com-
mon sense and organization.
He held no illusions that he was a romantic
figure—few detectives do. Twenty-odd years in
the police service do not make a man romantic.
Josiah Garfield was hard on occasion, but the
twinkle in his eye proved that he was human.
He glanced now from the table to the two
journalists and smiled. “Hope I'm not dis-
turbing you?” he apologized.
“Not a bit, not a bit,” Jimmie assured him.
The detective closed the door and walked into
the dining-room. “I hear you’ve taken up your
quarters here,” he said. “Now—getting right
down to things—what's the game?”
Silverdale was absorbed in rolling a cigarette.
He looked up slowly and his eyes met the de-
tective’s. “That's what we want to know,” he
said. “What are you hiding in there?” He
jerked his thumb vaguely in the direction of
Saxon’s flat. His manner had changed. He was
abrupt, direct. “You know me, Garfield. I’m
all out on this yarn. The story of Sir Harold
Saxon’s murder will be all over the world to-
morrow. You can’t hide your head in the sand
like an ostrich. Do you want me to come in
with you? Are you going to trust me, or shall I
pull things off by myself and perhaps upset the
Cart?”
Garfield pulled his upper lip thoughtfully.


SUSPECTED 23
Fred, known to a few other people in the world
as Mr. Frederick Blunt.”
Mr. Frederick Blunt was seated in an upright
Chair, his wide but well-creased trousers crossed
at the knee. His coat descended in a volumi-
mous skirt well over the waist. His suit had
Obviously been bought in America. He boasted
a small black tooth-brush mustache and a pair
of small, restless green eyes that darted to and
fro across the room like those of a trapped
animal. He showed his white teeth in an ani-
mal snarl as the detective spoke. Jimmie could
See the veins swell on his white hands as he
Clenched his fists.
“I’m about fed up with this,” he said resent-
fully. “Haven’t you kept me hanging about
here long enough? I’m no lackey for the police.
If you don’t get down to what you want, I’m
going to beat it.” -
Garfield smiled a suave, dangerous smile.
“I’m not stopping you, my friend,” he ob-
Served. “Beat it, by all means. There's the
door, if you want to go.”
Blunt half rose and reached for the billycock
that lay beside his chair. Garfield regarded
him steadily, smilingly, and the other seemed
to appreciate some subtle menace in his gaze,
for he sank back again and twiddled nervously
with his hat.
“Mr. Blunt can’t tear himself away, you see,
Jimmie,” went on the detective smoothly.


24 SUSPECTED
“He’s very superstitious, is Mr. Blunt, and per-
haps he feels that it might be unlucky. Mr.
Blunt and you and I, Jimmie, are going to have
a nice, cozy, confidential chat. You see, Mr.
Blunt has a great deal up his sleeve that he
wants to say to us—haven’t you, Mr. Blunt?”
“I didn’t croak the stiff,” growled Fred.
“So you said before. In his own happy way,
Jimmie, Mr. Blunt is saying that he did not
murder Sir Harold Saxon. Mr. Blunt is an old
friend of mine. That’s how I knew where to
send for him and why he so courteously re-
sponded to my invitation to come here. He
couldn’t refuse. Mr. Blunt has been a little un-
fortunate once or twice, but he wouldn’t kill
an old friend—would you, Fred?”
“Aw—cut out the funny stuff.”
“Now,” Garfield leaned forward and laid
one finger on the palm of a hand in the man-
ner of a man demonstrating an argument, “our
friend denies that he ever knew Saxon. That’s
a lie, isn’t it, Freddie?” -
He spoke mildly without any change of voice,
and waited for a second for an answer to his
challenge. The crook shook his head surlily,
roused himself as if to speak and altered his
mind. -
“It’s a lie,” went on the chief inspector.
“Mr. Blunt knows a great deal about the finger-
print system. This flat has been ransacked
from top to bottom and finger-prints have been


SUSPECTED 25
developed on a dozen different things. This
tumbler, for instance.”
As he spoke, he lifted a tumbler from a side
table, he held it up to the light. Drawing a
Small packet from his waistcoat pocket, he
sprinkled a little powder on the side of the glass,
blew it away, and showed the sharp detail of
thumb and finger marks. Blunt was visibly in-
terested. He leaned forward, his little green
eyes fixed apprehensively on the glass.
“That’s how it’s done,” continued Garfield.
“I’ve had photographs taken of finger-prints
on other articles and compared with our little
collection at the Yard. The gentleman who
left his trademark must have paid a visit to this
place recently. He'll be lucky if he isn’t
charged with murder.” Suddenly his soft tones
changed and his voice rose sternly. “These
finger-prints are yours, Freddie. What have
you got to say about it?”
An animal growl came from the white lips
of the trapped man. In one single swift mo-
ment he was on his feet and an automatic ap-
peared as by magic - in his hand. Garfield
laughed merrily and flung his huge bulk face
forward on the ground. Jimmie leapt aside
and then towards Blunt, but quick as he was the
detective was quicker.
As he dropped, Garfield’s right hand whipped
out and caught Freddie by the ankle. A quick
jerk threw him off his balance and he fell


26 SUSPECTED
heavily, the pistol flying from his hand. Jim-
mie pounced upon it, but before he could re-
cover himself, Blunt was free and was coming
at him with dynamic fury.
One never knows what a man will do in an
emergency. Freddie Blunt was a scoundrel,
but among those who knew him best at Scot-
land Yard, he was not reckoned an apostle of
physical violence. Garfield had, however,
roused him beyond all reasoning. He saw the
shadow of the gallows before him and to avoid
it, he was willing to fight in a blind frenzy.
With blazing eyes he tore at Silverdale. The
journalist was hurled aside and staggered
against the wall, still grasping the automatic.
Garfield was on his feet once again and his
muscular hands fastened themselves at the mad-
man’s neck. Almost without effort, he lifted
the squirming ruffian clean from the floor and
held him for a second while he made sure of his
grip. Then he flung him heavily across the
TOOIO.
“Lie there, you ratl”
Under the stress of physical conflict, primitive
man had flowed out in the usually self-controlled
detective for once, but his self-possession re-
turned almost instantly. Not so with Blunt.
He lay where he had fallen, breathing heavily,
his green eyes flashing from one to the other.
Half a dozen men of the corps of detectives
who were engaged in various investigations in


SUSPECTED 27
the flat had clustered round the door. Garfield
dismissed them with a gesture.
“That’s all right,” he said coolly. “Some-
body very nearly got hurt, but it's all right now.
Now, Velvet,” he continued, as his subordinates
disappeared, “you can get up if you're tired of
making a fool of yourself.” He brushed the
dust from his clothes with a handkerchief fas-
tidiously. “You don’t think I was thinking you
committed this murder, do you?” A slight
touch of contempt crept into his voice. “You
haven’t nerve enough.”
Blunt picked himself up sulkily. “What were
you driving at, anyway?”
Silverdale intervened for the first time. His
voice was as silky as Garfield's and he swung
the automatic idly to and fro by the trigger
guard.
“What Mr. Garfield is driving at, if I’m not
making any mistake,” he said, “is that if you
didn't kill this man yourself, you have a very
good suspicion who did!”
Blunt knotted his hands sulkily. The gaze of
both men was fixed on him steadily. “I don’t
know,” he answered with a note of doggedness
in his voice.
Jimmie shrugged his shoulders and glanced
interrogatively at the inspector. Garfield nod-
ded. He was content to let the journalist try
by methods that had before then been success-
ful with German prisoners.


28 - SUSPECTED
The journalist thrust his head forward and
stared straight between Blunt’s eyes. “You
do know,” he rasped.
“What were you doing in this flat?” broke
in Garfield. “Who sent you? What did you
Want?”
“Let me alone,” protested Blunt. “I wasn’t
in the flat. I don’t know.”
They plied him pitilessly, brutally, with a
ceaseless rain of questions. Like some dogged
animal, he held them at bay as they alternately
threatened and coaxed. There is no third de-
gree in Britain, and, technically, both of his
questioners knew they were infringing the strict
letter of the law. But many crimes would go
unsolved if the limits of legality were always
observed in these cases.
Garfield apparently gave it up at last.
“That’s enough,” he growled.
“There's only one thing that makes you un-
willing to talk,” said Jimmie. “You were in
the flat. If you didn’t kill Sir Harold Saxon,
Who did?”
White and shaken, Blunt shook his head
dumbly.
“You’re right, Jimmie,” agreed Garfield.
“Once for all, Freddie, listen to me. I know
you didn’t kill this man. Now unless you cough
up your story—it’s between friends now—I
swear I'll let you go down to prove you didn’t.
Get me?”


SUSPECTED 29
“You mean you'll charge me with the mur-
der?” -
“I’ll do that,” said Garfield, nodding with
grim emphasis.
There was method in this terrorization. Gar-
field knew he was dealing with a man who was
beyond the fringe of decent human society. That
Welvet Fred held the thread of the mystery,
he was convinced and it needed little reasoning
to see that some strong object was keeping his
lips sealed. A stronger motive was needed to
make him speak.
Even for Garfield, it was carrying things close
to the bone to threaten to accuse a man he knew
to be innocent of a capital crime. But he saw
no other means of forcing the crook’s hand.
Once in the dock, Velvet Fred would have to
reveal his story or run the risk of being hanged.
Blunt was no fool. Rightly or wrongly, he
believed that Garfield meant his threat. He
went very white.
“I’ll tell you,” he said in a low voice.
“The straight goods, now. No lies.”
“I’ll give you the straight goods. Look here,
Mr. Garfield, it’s up to you to see that I come
out of this with my skin safe. If Eston—”
Garfield interrupted with a low whistle. “So
Eston is mixed up in this. Don’t you worry—
I’ll look after you. Half a moment. We’ll have
your statement in writing.”
He summoned one of his aides, who placed


30 SUSPECTED
himself with notebook and pencil at a low table.
“Head this: “The voluntary statement of Fred-
erick Blunt, otherwise’—there’s nothing to
smile at, Silver. This is a deadly serious
business.”
‘‘l’m not smiling,” protested Jimmie.
“Right-oh. Now we’re ready, Velvet. Go
ahead!”
“There isn’t much to it, Mr. Garfield, but you
know Eston. He'll have me, if it’s twenty years
hence.”
“Who’s Eston?” interrupted Jimmie.
“Eston,” explained Garfield, “is the biggest
crook in London—perhaps in the world. I’ll
tell you more about him when Velvet has fin-
ished.”
“Well, I met Eston a week ago at a restau-
rant up Regent Street way. He was with a
bird 2 3
“A girl?”
“I said so,” said Blunt aggrievedly. “They
were having a bit of an argument and didn’t
take any notice of me for a bit. Presently the
girl went and Eston beckoned me over.
“‘Can you do a little job for me—or rather
for a lady?” he asks.
“‘Sure,” said I, “if there's anything in it for
me.”
“Then he tells me that there’s some papers in
this flat and that he’s bound to have 'em. He
offered me fifty of the best and I took on the


SUSPECTED 31
job. I pulled it off night before last. The gink
who lives here had a safe that you’d laugh to
see.”
“The safe here has not been tampered with,”
said Garfield.
“Hasn’t it?” said Velvet scornfully. “Give
me five minutes with the combination and I’ll
lock and unlock it any time you want. Any-
way, I did it—got the papers—a bundle of let-
ters—and handed 'em to Eston.”
“Was the girl there then?”
“Sure. It was at the same restaurant. She
was seated at a different table, but Eston went
over with the goods after he finished with me.”
“You’d recognize her again?”
**I think S.O.”
“Then look at this.”
Garfield pulled a cabinet photograph from his
pocket and thrust it in front of the crook. Wel-
vet nodded his head. “That’s the lady.”
“That’s the woman who killed Harold
Saxon,” said Garfield, handing the picture over
to Silverdale.
Jimmie only needed one glance. The room
reeled round him.
For the portrait was that of Hilary Sloane.


CHAPTER TV
THERE are overwhelming moments of catas-
trophe which, for a time, deaden the faculties
and then leave them preternaturally acute.
Silverdale was stunned—but only for an instant.
He sought vainly in his mind for some outlet to
the tangle. What was Hilary Sloane doing in
this galley?
Saxon had been killed by a hatpin—evidence
of probability, though not of certainty, that the
person who killed him was a woman. Then her
frantic appeal to him to get her away from
London, to enable her to disappear. To his
logical mind the motive stood out now sun-
clear. The links bringing home the crime to
her were all connected. Her meeting with Es-
ton, her photograph in the flat, the hatpin, her
anxiety to vanish.
And yet—and yet! Intuition which he vainly
tried to dismiss as mere sentiment told him he
was wrong. This sunny girl, this woman whom
he had set on a pinnacle in his soul—a mur-
deress! It was impossible!
“What's the matter, Jimmie?” Garfield’s
suave voice broke in on him as from a great dis-

32


SUSPECTED 33
tance. “You don’t know the lady, do you?”
Silverdale pulled himself together, though for
a perceptible second he hesitated.
“Lord, no! She’s some looker, isn’t she?”
The casual words stuck in his throat.
“A good-looking girl,” agreed the inspector.
“We’ve got to get hold of her. You don’t know
her, I suppose, Velvet?”
The crook had been surveying Silverdale nar-
rowly. His scrutiny dropped and he shook his
head.
“Never seen her in my life before Iran across
her with Eston, Mr. Garfield.” -
“Not the slightest idea where she is?”
“Not the ghost of a glimmer.”
“Right you are, Velvet. Sign your name to
your statement and you can go. But mind you,”
Garfield emphasized his warning with upraised
forefinger, “you’ll be wanted again. No tricks
now. Understand?”
“Sure, I get you. I’ll not double-cross you.
Stand on me. Good-night, Mr. Garfield. Good-
night, Mr. Silverdale.”
He picked up his hat, brushed it with his arm
and moved jauntily out. Silverdale was thank-
ful for the respite. Rightly or wrongly, with
that lie to the detective he had committed him-
Self to a course of action. His duty to his paper,
his moral obligation to Garfield, the ethical duty
of every citizen to see justice done, he had sunk
fathoms deep. A pair of dancing gray eyes


34 SUSPECTED
were more to him than all the world. At all
costs Hilary Sloane must be protected.
“A nice gentleman, Mr. Blunt,” he com-
imented smilingly.
“Glad you like him,” said Garfield. “Well,
Jimmie, I expect that will be all the show for
to-night, though we never can tell. We’ll be all
out after Eston for a while—and then the girl.”
“Ah, yes, the girl,” Silverdale moistened his
dry lips. “Who is she?”
“That's what we’ve got to find out,” said
Garfield. “Now if you like, I’ll show you over
the flat, tell you what we’ve done and then home
to bed.” He yawned. “Heigh-ho, I'm tired.”
Even the apprehension that weighted him
like a pall could not lessen Jimmie's vivid pro-
fessional interest in the details of the crime.
His memory on what he saw or was told was as
infallible as a cash-register. Small things may
mean much in detective or newspaper work,
though it is not always so simple to know which
of a hundred trivialities may be the one of
moment. He listened, observed, and questioned,
but nothing served to shake the obvious horrible
fact that oppressed him.
He found Harry waiting for him impatiently
when at last he had said good-night to Garfield
and shook off his colleague's questioning with
an unusual surliness. He wanted to think.
Spite of Garfield’s assurance that nothing
farther could happen that night, he was not


SUSPECTED 35
easy. The unexpected frequently happens with
amazing suddenness on criminal investigations.
The ponderous machine of Scotland Yard was
at work at full pressure and Silverdale, though
 knew its limitations, also knew its immense
ramifications. Men were probably raking out
Saxon’s history for a score of years past, both
in Britain and the United States. The hounds
were out after Eston—he had no doubt that gen-
eral instructions had been flashed by wire to
every police district—in every port, at every
railway station, there would be quiet, alert men
in and out of uniform, watching and ready.
There would be the direct pursuit, organized by
Garfield himself. The organization of Scotland
Yard and its allies is beyond doubt wonderful.
No man whose identity is known—and Eston’s
was known—can hope to evade it. When Eston
was caught—what then?
Fort, the news-editor, met them in the corri-
dor as they reached the Daily Wire office. He
was in his shirt-sleeves.
“Back again, Silver. What luck?”
“I’ve got all the facts up to now, Fort,” said
Silverdale. “But I don’t know how far to go.
It may be that this won’t be the big story I
thought.” - -
“Listen to him,” Fort admonished the ceil-
ing. Then he punched his desk with his fist.
“You know as well, or better than I do, Jimmie,
that it’s a big story. Let's talk sense. How


SUSPECTED 37
the privacy of a telephone box, he put through
a call to a garage which had helped both him
and the Daily Wire before.
“I want a car outside Sloane Street Under-
ground Station at seven in the morning,” he
said. “Something good. None of your broken-
winded antiques. Get that? I may want to
drive myself and I don't know how long I shall
need it.”
Jimmie wrote more slowly than his usual
feverish speed that night. Every word he con-
sidered with care. Whatever might befall in
the hours and days to come, he was determined
that Hilary Sloane's name should not be
dragged in the mire. A hundred keen eyes in
Fleet Street he knew would scrutinize his story
of the crime in the morning. Men would be
Seeking for a hint, a clew, some line of investi-
gation. He did not want that line to lead to
Hilary Sloane.


CHAPTER W
THE building was quivering with the shudder-
ing rumble of the great printing presses in the
basement as Jimmie Silverdale quitted the
Daily Wire office. He shivered as the cool fresh
air of the early morning struck him and but-
toned his thin raincoat tightly. Always it had
seemed to him there was something unreal, un-
natural, in the noisy activity of the streets of
newspaperdom at that hour. Now, somehow, it
jarred upon him more than ever.
As he turned into Fleet,Street, he glanced at
his watch. It was two o'clock. Only by great
luck could he hope to pick up a nocturnal taxi-
cab. He quickened his stride and moved west-
ward. After all, it was but a walk to Chelsea.
Mrs. Grundy and the conventions might go
hang. He would see Hilary. He felt chilled.
The exercise would warm him.
Now it would be doing Jimmie Silverdale an
injustice to suppose that he had usually held
any diffidence in pursuing a course he had
marked out. He considered difficulties as they
arose. He set out on that journey with the
fixed intention of rousing Hilary from bed—if
she had gone to bed, which he doubted—and
having the whole subject thrashed out. There
38


40 SUSPECTED
“Something of the sort,” he agreed. And
then dryly: “You seem brighter than when I
saw you last night.”
“My dear Jimmie!” she laughed. “I had
the mopes last night. I don’t know what was
wrong with me. But as soon as I placed mat-
ters in your competent hands, I knew that every-
thing would be all right, of course.” She
dragged him by the arm forward. “Here, get
your coat off and come and have some break-
fast. Nora is having hers in her room. She’s
a lazy creature. We’ll be able to have a quiet
talk. Don’t look at me like that. What’s the
matter?”
Her apparent light-heartedness took Jimmie
unawares. Women were past all understand-
ing. Was this chatter, this brightness—a pose?
If so, she was a consummate actress.
“Nothing wrong with me,” he said slowly.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Fatal. Break yourself of it at once, or it’ll
get hold of you like the dope business. Laugh
—that’s the only thing—laugh.”
They had reached the little breakfast-room
and she was busy with eggs and coffee. Her
manner had to some extent relieved his mind,
though why or how he might have been at a
loss to explain. She seemed determined to
carry things off in a matter-of-fact way. There
was none of that strained embarrassment on her
side which he had expected at their meeting.


SUSPECTED 41
He ate and drank mechanically, silent and
thoughtful, while she talked gayly on, never re-
ferring to the object of his visit even indirectly.
He was trying to catch a serious note beneath
her flippancy and not succeeding.
“I’m damned if I can make it all out,” he
said in a sudden access of irritability, pushing
his cup away and rising from the table.
“What's the game, Hilary?”
She looked up, startled, apprehensive.
“Good heavens, Jimmie, you startled me. I
thought you’d broken my pet breakfast set. I
thought you were a man who never suffered
from nerves.” She crossed the room and laid a
slim hand, light as a feather, on his arm. Her
touch seemed to electrify him and he caught her
other hand. -
“Let’s have done with all this fencing. I
want to know things. I want you to trust
me.” -
A thin pucker showed in her forehead and
she disengaged herself gently. “Don’t be melo-
dramatic,” she murmured. “You’re behaving
a little bit like an idiot, Jimmie. Did you know
it?” -
He choked back an expression used in mo-
ments of stress by the Army in Flanders. Her
self-possession staggered him.
“I am an idiot,” he said bitterly. “No one
but an idiot would have given you the promise
I made last night.”


42 SUSPECTED
At last there was a change. All the light had
gone from her face and she was grave. “You’re
not going back on that, Jimmie? You are going
to help us out of town?”
He saw relief in the gray eyes as he nodded.
“Yes; I’ll help,” he said quietly.
“Then you mean that you’re sorry you prom-
ised to ask no questions,” she went on. “What-
ever you say or do, I’m going to hold you to
that. That’s why I’ve been talking about every-
thing else under the sun. If you’ve made things
all right for us to get away, I’m content. I
want to know no more nor think any more about
it. I’m content to leave everything in your
hands.”
He stood, one elbow on the mantelpiece, look-
ing down on her with calculating gaze. She had
cleared a space on the table and sat idly swing-
ing her feet to and fro. A dainty picture she
made and there was no suggestion of drama in
her attitude or tone.
“That's rather clever,” said Silverdale ad-
miringly. “You want to put me on my honor
not to know too much.”
She glanced down at her gray woolen stock-
ings and nodded. A slight flush had crept into
her cheek.
“I’d do much for you, Hilary,” he went on.
“You know how I have felt, how I still feel,
about you.” She gave a slight shrug of impa-


SUSPECTED 43
tience and he went on. “I’ll leave that out
then. When I gave you my promise, I felt what-
ever your reasons were for wishing to leave
London in so extraordinary a manner, they
were your own private affairs and I had no
right to pry. Since I last saw you circum-
stances have changed. I don’t believe you can
carry this through on a lone hand. Let me
come in.”
She swung herself impulsively from the table
and seized both his hands, pulled him out into
the room and danced half round him.
“You’re a bright boy, Jimmie, and a clever
boy, but you’re dazzled by your own cleverness
SOmetimes. It wants a woman to run this show
properly, and I’m going to be in command.
Just for once, I’m going to run you in blinkers
to see how it feels.”
“One moment, Hilary. Do you realize the
danger?”
“Danger?”
“Yes. Perhaps I understand more easily
than you credit. I know more than you think,
Hilary. I tell you that you stand in the great-
est peril that man or woman can stand in.
What may happen—God knows what may hap-
pen! It turns my blood' cold to contemplate.
You have brains, you have courage, but you are
a woman.”
“If I didn’t know you, Jimmie Silverdale, I
should say you had gone raving mad. This is


44 SUSPECTED
getting curiouser and curiouser, as Alice in
Wonderland said. Can't you be plain?”
“I’ll be plain then, my dear. You have asked
me to help you—in blinkers. Well, something—
not my own will—has removed the blinkers. I
have seen—I have heard—”
“What?” she snapped the question out de-
fiantly.
He caught her by the wrist. “Have you ever
heard of Harold Saxon?”
“I don’t know. I may have. I can’t say.
Let me go. You are hurting me!”
He released her. “Harold Saxon was the
head of the Saxon Aéroplane Works. He was
killed yesterday before you sent that frantic
note to me. He was stabbed with a woman’s
hatpin.”
She stood as though frozen to stone. Her
eyes were fixed on his face, searching apprehen-
sively. “What has that to do with me?” she
asked and he could see her lips were dry.
“It has everything to do with you. You
have told me you didn’t know Saxon. At any
rate he knew you. There was a photograph of
you in his possession at the time of his death.
The detectives are linking up evidence, that will
associate you with the crime. They are look-
ing for you, Hilary. You are trying to leave
London.”
“Oh!”


SUSPECTED 45
The cry was so faint that he scarcely heard
it. She held her arms out towards him and
then they dropped to her side. Slowly her feet
seemed to fail under her. Hilary Sloane, whose
nerve had never failed under the most terrible
conditions in the blood-soaked hospitals in
France, for the first time in her life had un-
obtrusively fainted.
The door opened. A slim, yellow-haired girl
with pale complexion and in traveling dress en-
tered with outstretched hand.
“Good-morning, Mr. Silverdale. Why,
what’s the matter with Hilary?”
“Fainted, I think,” said Jimmie. “She
didn’t seem quite herself when I came in.”


CHAPTER WI
NoHA DRING moved swiftly to where Hilary was
lying and lifted her head. “What have you
been saying to her?” she demanded angrily.
Before Silverdale could reply, Hilary opened
her eyes. “Silly of me to do that,” she said.
“I’m all right. Don’t begin to fuss me.”
As a proof she sat upright, tailor fashion,
and her hands flew to her hair which she began
to pat and rearrange. Then she accepted Sil-
verdale’s aid to rise and clung to him a little
unsteadily. Nora Dring was regarding her ear-
nestly. “What happened?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Hilary. “I was talk-
ing to Mr. Silverdale and—and—I just dropped.
I’m perfectly fit now.”
“H’m l’’ Nora’s gaze shifted to the journal-
ist. He met it with bland unconcern.
“A car has been waiting outside Sloane
Street Station for some little time,” he said.
“I thought it wiser that I should drive it here
and pick you up. Now if you ladies are
ready !”
“Will you arrange about getting the luggage
down, dear?” said Hilary to Nora. “I’ve just
got to put my hat on.”
The yellow-haired girl lifted her shoulders as
46


SUSPECTED 47
though disclaiming all responsibility for some
situation that she only guessed at. Another
question trembled on her lips, but was never
spoken. With another shrug she left the room.
Hilary supported herself with her hand on a
chair.
“Jimmie,” she said, with a quiver, in her
voice. “You don’t think—that?”
“I think nothing, Hilary. I am just telling
you the facts.”
“But you—oh, my God!” She buried her
face in her hands and seemed to be fighting for
her self-control. “I tell you I know nothing—
nothing ! I have never seen Saxon in my life.
It is preposterous. Oh, Jimmie, I shall go mad!
You believe me, don't you? Nora will be back
in a moment.” She sprang forward and caught
his hands passionately in hers. “Say you be-
lieve me!”
A thousand questions thronged to his lips, but
he resolutely repressed them. There would be
time and opportunity later. Reason fought
with intuition. The facts were against her, but
his instinct told him that she was playing no
part. Suddenly he caught her roughly to his
breast and kissed her.
“I believe you, Hilary,” he said hoarsely.
“I’ll do what I can. Whatever it costs, you can
count on me.”
It has been said before in this narrative that
Silverdale was not given to demonstrative emo-


SUSPECTED 49
mie to the driver. “I’ll handle this car myself.
You might meet me in Piccadilly Circus in an
hour's time in case I want you.”"
Jimmie took his seat at the steering-wheel.
Then an idea occurred to him and he artistically
dropped a rug so that it obscured the rear num-
ber of the car. One never lost anything
through precaution.
He found the girls waiting for him at the flat
and to his regret Miss Dring took the vacant
seat by his side and Hilary had the body of
the car to herself.
“You must think all this very mysterious,
Mr. Silverdale,” she commented as he started.
“Hilary is a queer girl. It is awfully good of
you to humor her.”
“I am only too glad to be of service,” said
Jimmie formally. “Hell! what was that?”
There was a shout behind them and, with a
hasty glimpse over his shoulder, the reporter
caught sight of men running.
Nora Dring gave a quick moan. “Who are
they? They will get us.”
Jimmie did not know who the men might be,
but he had a good suspicion and was taking no
chances. The car leapt forward and took a
corner, as it seemed, on two wheels. In defi-
ance of all speed limits he let her have full
power. Luckily there was little traffic in the
streets. For half a mile he held on recklessly
and then slowed to a more reasonable pace.


50 SUSPECTED
“We’ve shaken them off. There’s no sense
in calling attention to ourselves,” he said.
It was close on five-and-twenty past eight
when they reached Paddington. Jimmie sum-
moned a porter and shook hands with the two
girls.
“I’ll not come to the platform,” he said.
“Good-by and good-luck. If you have any let-
ters to write, send them to me. I’ll post them
off. Understand?”
“Good-by and thank you,” said Hilary—in a
low voice.
As he waved them off, he was alert to any—
thing that might happen about him. That alarm
as they had started from Chelsea showed that
the flight had been undertaken only just in time
—if in time. It was as well that he had taken
precautions. The car could not be identified by
its number anyway, and the fact that he had
driven himself closed an avenue of inquiry that
would certainly be taken up. His wandering
eye rested for a second on the backs of the two
girls, now half a dozen paces away. He froze
into immobility and his stare became fixed un-
til they passed beyond sight. A smothered
exclamation came from his lips.
“Good God! What a blundering blind ass I
am. I wonder i 92
Slowly and thoughtfully he wheeled the car
round and glided out. As he took the corner
outside the station a slim young man of perhaps


SUSPECTED 51
between thirty and thirty-five slipped hurriedly
into the roadway and held up his hand.
“Just got 'em off in time,” muttered Silver-
dale beneath his breath. “I don’t know this
chap, but he’s on the job all right.” He
pulled up.
“Mr. Silverdale?” questioned his interrupter
smoothly.
“Further deception is useless,” agreed Jim-
mie with a wide-mouthed grin. He studied his
interlocutor closely. Now, on nearer approach,
he was not so certain of the man’s age. The
face that looked into his with smiling good
humor was a strong one. Pale blue eyes, high
cheek bones, and a mouth like a rat-trap, were
surmounted by a head of corn-colored hair.
He was dressed in a dark brown suit that bore
the stamp of a West-End tailor. He had re-
moved his hat with a somewhat foreign gesture
as he spoke.
“You will pardon my apparent imperti-
nence,” he said, speaking in a quiet, self-
possessed voice. “I believe you have just left
two ladies at the station. I am interested in
them.”
Jimmie relinquished the wheel and began to
roll a cigarette. He was apparently very en-
grossed in the process for he did not answer
for some little while. He glanced at the
stranger from under lowered lids.
“I’d hate to deceive you,” he said gently. “I


52 SUSPECTED
have been on a joy-ride and I have had no ladies
in this car. You are under a misapprehension,
Sir.”
A hint of amusement crept into the cold eyes.
“If it entertains you to tell a fatuous lie, Mr.
Silverdale, don’t mind me. I have been at con-
siderable trouble to come here to meet you and I
know a very great deal.” He placed one highly
polished boot on the running-board and gesticu-
lated gently with a gloved forefinger. “That
will be obvious to you from the fact that I am
here.”
Silverdale refused to be impressed. “Con-
tinue. You interest me strangely,” he
laughed.
The stranger bit his lip a trifle irritably.
The mockery was not lost on him. Then he
laughed. “I understand. You are trying to
make me lose my temper. It is always good to
make the other man angry. But be careful, Mr.
Silverdale. I know you have just smuggled
Miss Sloane and Miss Dring out of town.
What’s more—I know why.” r
Silverdale was conscious of a keen scrutiny
as the last words were flung at him. He held an
httitude of indolent detached amusement. “My
dear Sherlock—” he protested.
“Suppose you drop that pose,” suggested the
other. “Let’s get down to business. Tell
me—” he pulled himself fully on to the run-
ning-board closer to the journalist and dropped


54 SUSPECTED
He leaned back carelessly. “That’s the stuff,
Mr. Eston. Shoot away!”
Eston grunted. Then as though recalled to a
realization of his position, he pocketed the
weapon. “We’ll see about this,” he snarled.
“I’ve not finished with you yet, Mr. Silver-
dale.”
And turning on his heel, he walked swiftly
away.


º
ſ
§
CHAPTER VII
C+TIEF-DETECTIVE INSPECTOR GARFIELD sorted his
correspondence and, sitting on a high stool, ran
\
ough the reports and statements which be-
gan the dossier of the Saxon case with some
impatience. At a footstep behind him, he failed
to turn his head.
“Out of it,” he ordered peremptorily.
“Come back in five minutes. Can't you see
I'm busy?”
“That’s too bad,” said a quiet voice. Gar-
field wheeled round sharply, nearly overbalanc-
ing his tall stool.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Richard. I didn’t
know it was you.”
Sir Richard Essex, Assistant-Commissioner
of the Metropolitan Police, laughed. A quiet,
unostentatious man whose tastes ran rather in
the direction of literature than of crime, he had
brought the Criminal Investigation Department
to a high state of efficiency by methods that
were felt rather than seen. He picked up a
square of mirror from Garfield's desk and ad-
justed his tie. It was like him to walk in casu-
ally rather than send for his subordinate as
other administrative officials might have done.
55


56 SUSPECTED
“I hate to disturb you, Garfield,” he said
mildly. “I wanted to hear how things were
going.”
“You’ve seen the reports, Sir Richard.”
“I’ve seen the reports. That isn’t exactly
the same thing.” He placed the mirror gently
back in place. “You’ve heard of this affair at
Chelsea?”
“I haven’t been in five minutes. Has any-
thing gone wrong?”
Essex shrugged his shoulders. “You put a
couple of men on to shadow your friend Velvet
when you finished with him last night.”
“Yes. A mere matter of precaution.”
“I’ve heard some of your colleagues call you
lucky Garfield. Other people have described
you as a genius. You have Velvet followed, “as
a mere matter of precaution,” and he leads you
clean to the heart of the mystery, saving hours,
and perhaps days, of tedious heartbreaking in-
vestigation. Do you know he went straight off
to Eston after he left you?”
Garfield drummed on his desk. “I might
have guessed,” he said thoughtfully. “Welvet's
fifty different types of a dirty gutter-rat and
he’d not hesitate at a double-cross. He wants
to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.
But I suppose we got Eston?”
“Oh, no. They met at a night club and our
men weren’t very sure of Eston—though I have
no doubt from their description that he was the


SUSPECTED 57
other. Our chaps smuggled themselves in and
witnessed a long conversation between the two,
though they could not hear what was said.
Even if they had been sure of Eston they had
no instructions. You had told them to hang on
to Welvet.”
“If they'd used their brains,” grumbled Gar-
field, striding nervously across the room,
“they’d have taken a chance. You can work
till you’re sore on this kind of job and never get
anywhere unless you’re willing to take a chance.
There’s not a chief in the service who hasn’t
risked his career on a chance, time and again, as
you know, sir. You can’t catch criminals with
red tape. We may be a year before Eston
gives us another opportunity. I’ll tell those
lads—”
“A little advice from you won’t do ’em any
harm,” agreed the Assistant-Commissioner
dryly. “Well, Eston and Velvet were joined by
a third man, and presently the two latter left
together. They spent the night at a small hotel
off the Strand and left early this morning by
Underground to Sloane Square. Our chaps
hung on to them and followed them to a quiet
Street in Chelsea where most of the flats aré
used as artists’ studios. Velvet went inside one
of the buildings, while his friend kept watch out-
side. Ten minutes later he came out, walked to
Sloane Square and telephoned to someone.”
Garfield wrinkled his brows thoughtfully.


58 SUSPECTED
“Now I wonder what he had picked up there?”
he said.
“Lord knows. I’m giving you the story. He
came back and hung about. A little later, from
the same block of buildings, there came a news-
paper chap—a man, you know, I think—named
Silverdale. Our men know him well.”
“Jimmie Silverdale—the Daily Wire man?”
“That’s he. He went away, returned in a
little, driving a green motor-car with the num-
ber obscured and two women—girls—got in
with a quantity of luggage. He drove off in-
stantly and Velvet and his pal, who were lurk-
ing in the opposite direction—were after it.
Then one of our chaps recognized one of the
girls in the car and made a dive.”
Garfield thrust his hands deep in his trou-
sers pockets and came to a halt, facing his chief.
“The woman!” he exclaimed. “The girl whose
photograph was found in Saxon’s flat?”
“That's the lady. Our people hiked after her
like hounds, by their account, but Silverdale
drove like a madman. They got clean away.”
“A pretty mess they seem to have made of
it,” observed Garfield contemptuously. “But
if Silverdale was in it,” he went on, “we’ll be
knowing more about it soon. He’s evidently
struck some line that we didn’t know of and
gone straight for the girl. He'll play the game,
will Silverdale. He won’t hold anything out on
us.”


SUSPECTED 59
“Why should he spirit them away, though?”
The chief inspector’s eyes twinkled. “A
newspaperman on a big story doesn’t like to be
caught napping. He’s taken this lady beyond
reach of any other journalist—in case of acci-
dents. Somehow he's introduced himself to her
and by some persuasion—it may be money or it
may be some other influence—he's got her out
of reach of his fellow hawks of Fleet Street.
What happened to Velvet?”
“No one knows. He cleared out in the confu-
sion. Our men went round to the studio and
made a few inquiries. There were two girls liv-
ing there—one named Nora Dring. But the one
We want is an artist who was a Red Cross nurse
during the war—a girl named Hilary Sloane.”
“It looks like being a pretty full day,” said
Garfield. “Will you come down to this place
where Miss Hilary Sloane hung out, sir?”
“I was going to suggest it. When will you
be ready to start?”
“In half an hour. I have a lot of odds and
ends to clear up.” Garfield turned again to his
dossier.
There he read in a detailed report from Sum-
merfield—the senior of the two men who had
been told off to shadow Velvet—all that the as-
sistant-commissioner had told him. It took him
less than five minutes to summon that individual
and his colleague and to scorch them in a brief,
but exhaustive, review of their capacity and


60 SUSPECTED
common-sense. He dismissed them with their
tails—so to speak—between their legs and sent
them with Wade, his most trusted aide, down
to Chelsea to watch the studio and await his
coming.
He was, as he had said, easy in his mind about
Silverdale and he mentally congratulated him-
self on his good sense in making an ally of that
enterprising journalist. No suspicion that Jim-
mie might have any more intimate association
with the central figure in the case than that as a
journalist occurred to him. Silverdale would
not break his compact to work hand in hand
with the police.
Garfield like all good detectives had some-
thing in common with the good journalist. He
had no pretensions to omniscience but he did
know where to gather his information. The
microscope was not his province, but he always
knew how to lay his hand on an expert from a
fountain-pen manufacturer to a gunsmith. The
trail on any crime is largely a matter of expert
witnesses. They alone can swear to facts—and
facts are the only thing that convict in Anglo-
Saxon courts of justice.
There was, for instance, the stiletto-like hat-
pin with which Saxon had been killed. It had
been examined by doctors, by finger-print ex-
perts, and by Garfield himself—all without re-
sult. But it still figured in the investigation.
The chief inspector had not consciously rea-


CHAPTER VIII
SILVERDALE betook himself for luncheon to the
pleasant surroundings of the Palatial Restau-
rant. Curiously enough, he had scarcely started
On his soup when no less a person than Chief
Detective-Inspector Garfield dropped heavily
into the seat opposite.
Silverdale nodded indifferently. “That you,
Garfield? I thought you’d be along. How’s
everything?”
“Much as usual, Jimmie. What am I going
to have?” He studied the menu with deliberate
care and chose soundly and solidly.
Jimmie's heart thudded against his ribs. He
had steeled himself to this encounter and al-
though outwardly he wore his usual appearance
of nonchalant equanimity, he was feeling far
from easy. He wondered how much Garfield
knew.
Garfield's eyes twinkled. “You’ve got some-
thing up your sleeve just now. I thought we
Were going to pull this case through together.
I just want to know, that's all. What were you
doing at Chelsea this morning?”
“So you know about that,” said Jimmie
slowly. He realized the futility of the remark
63


SUSPECTED 65
asked. “Do you know that one of the women
you took away from Glebe Crescent this morn-
ing was Hilary Sloane—the girl whom we are
looking for? Why—I showed you a photo-
graph.”
“You don’t mean to tell me—” Jimmie leaned
across the table in apparent eagerness—“that
you—that Scotland Yard—suspects Miss
Sloane! Why, when I saw that picture I put
it down as a mere passing resemblance. Don’t
be a fool, Garfield. I’ve known Miss Sloane
for-for a long time. I don’t suppose she had
ever heard of Saxon. It’s just mere silliness.”
“This is all very damn funny,” said Garfield
sternly, “but I’m going to get to the bottom of
it. I've known coincidences happen but not
quite as curious as this. We’ve been friends a
long time, Silverdale, but I strongly advise you
to be frank.”
“Don’t get on your high horse,” said Jimmie
quietly. “It is a coincidence that you should
suspect a friend of mine and I'll give you a
Piece of advice—don't make a fool of yourself.”
Garfield swallowed hard. He had been in
danger for a little of losing his temper—a fatal
"atter in such a situation. “We’re getting
*"gry with each other now, Jimmie,” he said
*nd showed his white teeth in a smile. “Sup-
Pºse we give up calling each other names and
ty to straighten this business out. I've never
own any person realize at first that a friend


66 SUSPECTED
could be a criminal. Anyone else's friend, yes,
but one’s own, never. If you give me your word
of honor, Jimmie, that you’ve never had any
suspicion that Hilary Sloane was suspect till
this moment, I’ll believe you. I’ll believe you
if you say that it was sheer coincidence that you
smuggled her out of Chelsea this morning.
But”—his tone changed—“in view of what we
found at her studio when we searched it, I’ll not
believe that she knows nothing of this crime.”
“What did you find?”
“We found,” said the inspector slowly, “a
hatpin, the exact replica of that with which
Harold Saxon was murdered.”
There was no melodramatic emphasis in the
chief inspector’s voice. He was merely stat-
ing a fact, something as a lawyer presents a
fact to a witness in order to bring out further
information. Jimmie, however, apparently re-
mained unmoved. He ate on unperturbed, save
for a slight impatient lift of the shoulders.
“Are you trying to manufacture a case
against this girl?” he asked coldly. “It looks
very much like it to me.”
Garfield ignored the charge. To him, coming
from a man who knew so much of Scotland Yard
methods, it was too absurd to merit resentment.
“Take this hatpin, now,” went on Jimmie.
“There may be a thousand or ten thousand
women wearing that kind of thing.”
“There may be,” assented the inspector.


SUSPECTED 67
“Look here, sonny. I'm no Sherlock Holmes
and I’ve seen too many dead certs go wrong
ever to be cocksure. What your interest is in
this girl I don’t know—though I shall know.
My business is to add two and two together. I .
have found it makes five, but not very often.
Listen, Jimmie! Here first of all we have Hilary
Sloane's picture in possession of the murdered
man. Point number one. We know that she
was in association with Eston who instigated a
burglary at Saxon's flat for certain papers.
Point number two. She disappears after the
murder,(with your help). Point number three.
A hatpin, similar to the one with which Saxon
Was murdered, is found in her studio. Point
number four. That may be manufacturing a
Case in your view. In mine, I can only say that
I'd deserve to be broke if I didn't follow up that
singular string of coincidences. I don’t say
she's guilty; only a blind man could maintain
that she is not suspect.”
“I gather you suspect her,” said Silverdale
dryly.
He was doing some hard thinking. He knew,
none better, the bull-dog tenacity with which
men like Garfield, backed by the whole resources
of Scotland Yard, would follow up a trail. The
simile of a stoat flashed across his mind—a stoat
comparatively slow but following a rabbit with
deadly methodical unswerving precision. Su-
perior activity availed the rabbit little. The


SUSPECTED 69
proof–if you found that Hilary Sloane—”
Jimmie did not complete the sentence. He
Was striving to read the other’s face. Garfield
had finished his lunch and was meditatively
chewing a toothpick.
“We haven’t got that far yet,” he said. “It’s
always a long way from suspicion to evidence
that will convict. That's where the detective of
fiction has a pull over us, Jimmie. I’ve seen
detectives—in novels—have a man hanged on
º that would not convict a dog in real
- e.”
“But if—” persisted the journalist.
“If there was strong evidence pointing to
Hilary Sloane,” said Garfield sternly, “–some-
thing much stronger than there is at present,
! should only have one course to take. She would
be arrested and the facts placed before a jury.
They Would be the judges. If, however, this
girl is innocent, you cannot do better than trust
*...All I want is the truth.”
Silverdale's hands clenched and unclenched
ºth the table. He was curiously irresolute.
'''ll take you at your word, Garfield,” he ex-
*imed in sudden resolve. “Hilary has no
* knowledge—of that I am convinced. God
*p me if I'm doing wrong. Listen!”
°had become convinced that the open policy
"* the best. He talked quickly, tensely, with
*" and then a sharp nervous gesture to em-
phasize a point, painting a picture of the girl


72 SUSPECTED
“But you have always known that Eston was
in the case somewhere.”
“Sure I did. But I didn’t know he was so
vitally interested that he’d do such a senseless
thing as that. He’s a cold, callous rogue,”—
Garfield used another word, “and if he wasn’t
deep in this, he’d not take the risk of inter-
fering now. He’d not lift a finger for Miss
Sloane, yet he wants to head us off. There’s a
deep game on here, Jimmie, and I’m hanged if
I see the bottom of it. Could he have inter-
cepted the girls after he left you?”
Silverdale shook his head. “Not if the train
was on time.”
“Well, this makes it more or less essential
that I see Miss Sloane and get her story. You
will see to that, Jimmie?”
“Come back to the office with me now and
we’ll see if there are any wires.” -
The inspector glanced at his watch. “I’m
with you,” he said shortly, and held up his hand
for a taxi.
It was typical of Garfield that he would not
accompany Silverdale inside when they reached
the Daily Wire offices. He preferred to sit re-
motely back in the recesses of the car and wait.
Presently Silverdale returned, two wires in his
hand. He looked very serious.
“They have not arrived,” he said.
“Ah!”
“What do you make of this? It's from my


74 SUSPECTED
“Call it ten minutes at the Yard, Jimmie, and
I'll come with you. I want to see this girl and
it won’t do any harm, if things are as I think,
that you should have company.”
As a matter of fact, Garfield took less than
ten minutes. He left a man at the telephone,
putting through a call, to the police at Twyford,
had a brief interview with Superintendent Win-
ter, grabbed a budget of papers from his desk,
which he stuck in his pocket, and was leaving
when he came face to face with Wade.
“We’ve got on to Velvet,” said the sergeant.
“That's good. Grab him and keep him till I
get back this evening. I’ve got to get down to
Twyford.”
“That's funny,” said Wade. “Velvet left
for Reading on an early morning train. I am
getting in touch with the Reading police.”
Garfield placed a hand on his shoulder and
twisted him round. “You’ll do no such thing,”
he declared. “You’ll come along with me down
to Twyford. We’ll get Velvet there if we want
him. And, Wade—I nearly forgot—you might
slip up and get me three automatic pistols if you
don’t mind. I don’t like the beastly things, but
they’re useful to have on occasion.”


CHAPTER DK
HILARY SLOANE was by nature an extravagant
and luxurious little person. She could rough it
uncomplainingly on occasion, but when oppor-
tunity offered she preferred to be comfortable.
Soit was that, aided and abetted by Nora Dring,
she invested in first-class tickets after they left
Jimmie Silverdale—lavishness all the more fas-
cinating because they could not really afford
them.
They found that they had, after all, ample
time to settle themselves comfortably before the
train started. Nora bought two or three illus-
trated papers and fumbled with them as she
maintained a conversation that both at first
strove to keep as commonplace as though they
were merely leaving London on a holiday.
Nora Dring was, however, in spite of many mas-
culine qualities, a woman. The repression of
Curiosity was hateful to her.
“I rather like your Mr. Silverdale,” she ob-
served.
“He has been very good to us,” agreed
Hilary. Nora leaned back with feline grace.
She had the pussy-cat habit of physical comfort. .
From under her long, silky eye-lashes she re-
garded her companion steadily.
75


76 SUSPECTED
“What were you talking about before I came
down this morning?”
Hilary turned over the pages of the maga-
zine in her lap. “Oh, things,” she retorted
vaguely.
Outside a whistle blew and the train began to
draw out from the station. Nora drew a mo-
rocco case from her hand bag, selected a deli-
cately scented cigarette and, with a graceful
gesture of her slim, white hand, applied a light-
She gave a few tentative puffs and gazed after
the smoke rings as they disappeared to the roof.
“He must have thought everything very mys-
terious,” she commented.
Hilary folded her magazine and laid it on the
seat beside her. She began to appreciate the
drift of Nora’s questioning and whither it might
lead. Nora Dring had been her friend for a
long time, but she had come to realize in this
last day or two that people may be intimately
associated with each other for long periods
without in the least understanding each other's
personality.
“He probably did,” she fenced.
“I’m wondering what he knew—what he
asked you,” went on Nora. “It wasn’t like you
to fall into a faint.” She blew on the red end
of her cigarette and watched the ash flutter
away. Then her eyes turned to her friend.
Hilary flushed, but met the gaze of the other
girl squarely. “I flatter myself I worked that


SUSPECTED 77
stunt rather well,” she said flippantly. “Do
you know, Nora, all this kind of thing reminds
me of a picture-palace drama. I just carried
out the atmosphere. It was the right thing for
the distressed heroine to faint at that moment.
Some little actress—what!”
Two thin, hard lines appeared between
Nora’s brows. “That’s all nonsense,” she said
brusquely. “This superficial cynicism does not
impose on me. I want to hear how much Jim-
mie Silverdale knows. Don’t play with me,
Hilary. Let's have this out. I’m not a child
and I’m not going to be led blindfold any
longer.” She threw her cigarette away and
ground her heel on it viciously. Her lips were
Set resolutely and there was more than a sug-
gestion in her voice of a schoolmistress lectur-
ing a stubborn child. -
“Don’t be silly,” Hilary laughed, but there
was resentment in her gray eyes. “You agreed
to leave matters to me. Let me manage this.”
Nora shifted to the seat beside her and caught
her hand. “Forgive me, Hilary, but I must
know.” Her voice had lost its menacing accent
and was coaxing, persuasive. “Do you remem-
ber when we were a pair of silly little flappers
together that we swore we’d never have secrets
from one another as long as we lived?”
“Did we? I suppose we’ve carried out that
Compact—more or less!” There was no miss-
ing the irony in Hilary's voice. “You have had


78 SUSPECTED
no secrets from me all this time. I can make
allowances, Nora, but you are putting a strain
on my loyalty to you.” She flung out a hand
impulsively. “Aren’t there any questions I
should like to ask you—questions burning in my
brain even now. I want to know—” she
checked herself.
Nora withdrew, white-lipped. “What?” she
demanded.
“Oh, nothing. Let’s drop the subject.”
“I will not. I’m going to thrash this thing
out. You have been talking to Mr. Silverdale.
He has questioned you. He knows something.
I know this, Hilary—you are in love with him.
You appealed to him for help, and he is using
you for some purpose. You are just a silly
little fool!”
Hilary stiffened a little and took the seat
that Nora had vacated a few minutes before so
that they were again face to face. Her Red
Cross training warned her that her friend was
rapidly developing all the symptoms of a form
of hysteria. She had fought long with her own
high spirit to restrain herself, but now the limit
had been overstepped. Two spots of high, red
color appeared in her cheeks.
“Then I'll tell you,” she said coldly.
Nora leaned forward, her elbows on her knee,
her chin between her cupped hands, and her
eyes fixed tensely on her friend.
“Mr. Silverdale,” went on Hilary, articulat-


SUSPECTED 79
*
ing the words with vivid distinctness, “asked
me what I knew of the murder of Sir Harold
Saxon. It was then I fainted.”
A cold shiver shook Nora Dring from head to
foot. Her face had gone ashen and she put a
hand out blindly. Something like a moan
escaped her lips.
“He accused you of the murder?”
“He warned me I was suspected,” said
Hilary stonily.
“And yet—and yet he helped you—us—to
get away.” Nora shook herself as though to
be freed from some physical affliction. “It’s a
trap, Hilary. He is playing with you.” She
fell on her knees, sobbing, and buried her face
in Hilary's lap.
A score of questions were on Hilary’s lips—
questions suppressed for long, but the answers
to which would have supplied the key to a riddle
that was torturing her. She bit them back and
her hand fell gently on Nora's head. Very
gently she fondled the distraught girl, murmur-
ing little endearments that one would use to a
Sobbing child.
Presently Nora rose abruptly to her feet.
She had become extraordinarily calm. Her face
Was as impassive as though carved in stone.
sºmets mastery of herself had returned to
er.
. “It is a trap,” she repeated earnestly. “He
* hand in glove with the police. He is put-


80 SUSPECTED
ting us where they can lay their hands on us
when they have completed their evidence.”
“I trust Mr. Silverdale,” said Hilary simply.
“We can separate, if you like.” Yet a cold
hand seemed to grip at her heart. Silverdale
had told her that the detectives were linking up
evidence that might implicate her. She was a
woman of cool common-sense, though her ap-
parent jaunty indifference to consequences had
sometimes deluded observers. She could esti-
mate a situation as well as most men and she
realized where she stood. But she hated her-
self for suggesting that she should draw out.
Nora made no answer. She thrust her head
through the window and Hilary remembered
later, although she was not conscious of de-
liberately observing it, that she seemed to make
some gesture. Then she commenced to sort out
her traveling impedimenta and the train drew
up at a station. Hilary caught a glimpse of
the name Twyford on a signboard, and then a
figure darkened the window.
“Good-morning, Miss Dring. Good-morning,
Miss Sloane. None the worse for your very
hurried journey, I hope?”
Eston, hat in hand, and a dark mark on his
face was opening the door, suave and smiling
and sinister. Hilary shrank back in her seat.
“You?”
“Yes, even so humble a person as myself,
Miss Sloane. I was traveling by this train,


SUSPECTED 81
though I caught it by so narrow a margin that
I had no time to seek the privilege of traveling
in such pleasant company. I was a little de-
layed by an interview with a friend of yours,
Miss Sloane—a Mr. Silverdale. Can I assist
you to get your things out?”
“Thank you,” said Hilary icily. “I’m going
On.”
A quick glance passed between Nora Dring
and Eston—a glance that seemed to carry a
question and answer. Nora was no longer the
sobbing, distraught being of a few minutes be-
fore. Instead she was calm and business-like
as she hurriedly passed the luggage out.
“I think you had better get out here, Hilary.”
“I refuse. Nora, you’ll be mad to trust this
man. If you go with him, I wash my hands of
the whole business.”
Eston laughed. “I’m afraid your opinion of
me has changed, Miss Sloane. Let me assure
you,”—there was menace in his tone—“that
you are going to get out here. You are too
valuable to us to be allowed to go astray. You
know too much—much that might be interesting
to Mr. Silverdale, or the police. I propose to
keep a fatherly eye on you. Now I’d hate to use
force but—”
Hilary remained unmoved, though her nerves
were tense. Whatever her relations with Eston
had been, there could now be no doubt that she
thoroughly distrusted him.


SUSPECTED 83
mit. But I warn you that, after this, I hold my-
self free to act as I choose. Now I gave you my
word of honor on certain matters. This ab-
solves me.’’
Nora Dring did not meet her eyes. “I’m
sorry, Hilary,” she said. “Believe me, we’re
acting for the best. It is your interest, as well
as ours.”
“You’re just a pawn in this game,” inter-
posed Eston, “and pawns have to be sacrificed
sometimes.”
The train glided out as soon as she had
alighted. Eston hurried in search of a porter
to see to the luggage and Nora busied herself,
woman-fashion, in piling it into a nearer heap.
Hilary extracted an envelope from her hand
bag and hurriedly scrawled the wire that Sil-
verdale was to receive some hours later. As
Eston and a porter arrived, she, like Nora,
fussed with the luggage, adjusting it on the
hand-barrow, awaiting her opportunity. Pres-
ently she thrust the message and a ten-shilling
note into the man’s hand.
“Send that for me,” she said quietly.
“Don’t let my friends know.”
The porter nodded. “Right-oh, miss. I un-
derstand. I’ll see that it goes off.”
Outside the station, a fly of the antiquated
kind that can only be found in the pleasure re-
sorts of England was waiting. Eston had, ap-
parently, already given instructions to the


84 SUSPECTED
driver, for the moment they had taken their
seats, he drove off at a steady jog trot.
Hilary smoothed her skirt. “Nora,” she
said, “since you seem to have arranged all
this, perhaps you can tell me what it means.
Am I a prisoner?”
“A prisoner!” interposed Eston. “I hope
you won’t get that idea, Miss Sloane. Shall We
not say a guest—an honored guest!”


CHAPTER X
GARFIELD and Jimmie were busy. It was easy
enough to pick up the trail at the Twyford sta-
tion. It was simplicity itself to find the driver
of the fly who had taken Eston and the two
girls to some unknown destination. But there
they stuck.
“I was told to drive them out three miles on
the Reading road,” explained the cab-driver.
“They tumbled out on a lonely piece of highway
and there I left them—luggage and all.”
“Wasn’t there a house near?” asked Gar-
field.
“Not so much as a hut on either side for near
three quarters of a mile. The gent was a
pleasant-mannered man. He gave me a brown
Bradbury.”
“He gave you a pound,” said Silverdale.
“How did things strike you? Were they all
friendly and happy together?” -
The cab-driver jerked his head in assent.
Everything was quite all right. People did odd
things at times, he pointed out, emphasizing the
observation with the stem of his pipe, and for
his part he was content to mind his own busi-
ness whatever kind of place people got down
at. Yes, he’d very willingly drive the gen-
. 85


86 SUSPECTED
tlemen out the same way to the same spot.
Might he be so bold as to inquire whether it was
a runaway match? He was a man as minded
his own business, but he always kept his eyes
and ears open, he did. As soon as he set eyes
on the party, he knew there was going to be
an elopement. Which one of the young ladies
was it, might he ask? A pretty-looking pair,
but girls weren’t what they were in his young
days. He ventured to suppose that—looking
hard at Garfield—his girl had, so to speak, got
the bit between her teeth.
The chief inspector came as near to a blush
as his constitution would permit and cut the old
man’s garrulity short. “I’m no relation to
either of these ladies,” he observed testily.
“Suppose you get us along now. Wade—just
a second.” He drew his subordinate aside and
gave some instructions in a low voice. Wade
nodded understandingly and faded away. He
had a habit of fading unobtrusively for, though,
like all Scotland Yard folk he was a big man, he
could be very inconspicuous when he chose.
Neither Silverdale nor Garfield attached much
hope of learning anything from their expedition
out of Twyford. It was just one of those epi-
sodes which are continually cropping up in in-
vestigation work where the guiding axiom is
not to neglect anything. They were able to
make a shrewd guess as to what had happened.
“I suppose dear old Sherlock Holmes would


SUSPECTED 87
learn Something from this,” said Garfield when
they had arrived, surveying the grassy bank,
where the fugitive party had been set down,
With furrowed brow. “It doesn't need any
8ènius to gather that Eston wouldn't come here
on the spur of the moment. He had some fixed
Plan in his mind and he was taking no chances
ºf making an easy track for us to follow—if we
$ot on this end at all. They’ve been picked up
ºre by motor-car, and lord only knows where
they've been spirited off to.”
A little two-seated motor-car that was ap-
Proaching slid to a standstill near them, and
ºne of the occupants alighted. He looked some-
thing like a robust farmer.
“Am I speaking to Chief-Detective Inspector
Garfield?” he asked.
“That's me.”
“Ah, yes. My name is Grimes. I am super-
intendent of this division of the county con-
stabulary. I heard you had arrived and fol-
lºwed your cab out here. It's the Saxon busi-
less, I suppose. I know you are on it.”
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Grimes. Shake
hands with my friend, Mr. Silverdale. Yes, we
thought we might run an end down this way,
but nothing seems likely to come of it.”
Grimes took out a well-worn brier pipe and
pressed down the tobacco in the bowl with a
thick thumb. “I don’t know so much about
that, Mr. Garfield. We're not all fools in the


88 SUSPECTED
provincial police forces, though some of your
people up at Scotland Yard seem to think so.”
“Some people do run away with the idea that
Scotland Yard is the big noise,” assented Gar-
field genially. “I’ve never believed it myself.
The Yard gets more chances, that’s all. I was
going to call on you, but decided to wait until
I’d been out here.”
Silverdale turned away to hide a smile. Offi-
cially the various police forces of the United
Kingdom work in complete accord and harmony
together. Actually things are not always har-
monious. Time and again he had heard London
men consign their provincial colleagues to the
nether regions as arrant fools; no less often
provincial officers had expressed their private
but emphatic view that Scotland Yard was a
school for stuck-up blighting idiots.
“Pity you didn't,” said Grimes. “Might
have saved you a lot of trouble. We got a mes-
sage this morning asking us to watch for three
people who had reached Twyford by an early
train—two women and a man. Their descrip-
tions came along, too, so I had some inquiries
made and a look-out kept.”
“They drove out as far as this spot and then
changed into a motor-car?”
“You’re right, Mr. Garfield. That car was
hired in Reading and came out to meet them
here. They’ve flitted back to London, so you’ve
had a wasted journey.” He blew a cloud of


SUSPECTED 89
smoke into the air. “Which of them in par-
ticular is the bird you’re after?”
Garfield shot a quick glance at his interlocu-
tor and a puzzled look crept into his face. “All
of 'em,” he said briefly. “I guess I’ve met you
before, haven't I, Mr. Grimes? There’s some-
thing about you I seem to remember, though I
can’t seem to place you. I haven’t been down
this way officially before.”
“I think I ran across you some time ago
when I was nosing around the Criminal Record
Office. I was an inspector there—but you prob-
bably wouldn’t remember me.”
“It may be so,” agreed Garfield indifferently,
strolling a few paces forward so that Grimes
was between Silverdale and himself.
“I’d like to know a little more about this
business if you’ll trust me.”
The detective-inspector thrust his face for-
Ward until it was within a few inches of Grimes.
His jaw jutted out and his eyes were stern. But
his voice was mild.
“Sure about that, old man?” he asked.
“Sure!”
“What the blazes—” Grimes took a step or
two backwards, but Garfield followed him up,
pace for pace.
“I’m thinking that you know too much about
this already,” he declared. “That little party
has not gone to London. It's here—or some of
it. You’ve got a nerve, Eston, but we’ve got


90 SUSPECTED
you cold this time. You’ve overstepped things
for once.”
He leapt as he spoke and the other man by a
quick movement tried to evade his grip. But
Garfield was an adept in this kind of thing and
his powerful hands had fastened around Es-
ton’s waist in less time than the flicker of an
eyelid might have taken.
Jimmie's first impulse was to fling himself
headlong into the scrap, but he checked him-
self. Garfield he believed to be fully capable
of dealing with Eston in a physical tussle. It
was a more vital matter to see that Eston’s
companion, the driver of the two-seater, did not
intervene. Silverdale turned towards the car.
“You keep there!” he warned.
The driver had his eyes fixed on the twisting,
struggling men and scarcely lifted them to the
journalist. “That's all right, guv'nor. Don’t
you worry about me. I’m not rushing to mix
myself up in that, believe me.”
“Better not,” advised Jimmie, and threw a
quick glance on the struggling pair, while stand-
ing so that he might intervene if the chauffeur
should change his mind. -
There could be no comparison physically be-
tween the struggling pair. Garfield in weight,
height, and strength hopelessly outmatched his
opponent. Eston, however, was fighting desper-
ately. The hat and wig that had formed part of
his make-up for the character of Grimes had


92 SUSPECTED
ries a pair of handcuffs on his person, ready to
snap instantly on the wrists of any wrong-
doer. As a matter of fact, handcuffs are only
carried by men on escort duty. Garfield, like
his colleagues, would in the ordinary course of
duty be as likely to find a use for a Lewis gun
as for handcuffs.
The detective with a quick movement shifted
his grip to Eston's arms and forced them be-
hind his back. The other made no resistance.
“You’re making a mistake, Garfield,” he ob-
served in a quiet voice. “You’ve got no evi-
dence of an offense against me.”
“Jimmie,” said Garfield, “just knot your
handkerchief about this gentleman’s wrists.”
He shifted his position on the grass and the
prisoner conformed to his movements, but the
movement afforded Eston the chance for which
he was looking. His leg twined round the de-
tective who was caught at a precarious balance
and tumbled backwards into a ditch, releasing
Eston in a wild effort to save himself. Almost
at the same time the car began to move as the
watchful driver, no longer so impassive as when
Jimmie's eyes had been on him, thrust in the
clutch.
Luck was with Eston. As Jimmie grabbed at
him, he swerved and the slippery grass for
which the reporter had made no allowances did
the rest. Jimmie sat down heavily. Before
either he or Garfield had regained their feet,


SUSPECTED 93
the little two-seater was twenty yards up the
road and gathering speed.
It is in such contingencies, that a sense of
humor is a great asset. Jimmie looked at Gar-
field, and Garfield looked at Jimmie. The de-
tective was rueful, but there was a twinkle in
his eye. They burst into laughter—laughter at
their own chagrin. If they had not laughed,
they would have cursed.
The ancient fly-driver, who had sat through-
out a detached and open-mouthed observer of
the affair, thought they were mad.
–


SUSPECTED - 95
fication business required. I remembered a lit-
tle two-line paragraph that I’d seen a fort-
night ago, telling of the presentation of a gold
watch to Superintendent Grimes on his retire-
ment. Eston fell because of that little point.
I don’t pretend I’d have known him until I be-
gan to look for someone, other than a police
Officer.”
“Yes, but why should he do it? This is the
second time. He pulled me up in town, when
I shouldn’t have known him from Adam. Why
go out of his way to look for us? I'd have
thought he’d have bolted down his burrow and
let us do all the worrying in this game of
touch.”
The inspector slipped his arm through Silver-
dale’s.
“So would I, if he were not Eston. I can
think of fifty reasons for his action, but I’m not
sure which is the right one. That’s why I let
him go just now.”
It has been said before that Chief-Detective
Inspector Garfield had a certain amount of hu-
man nature in his composition. He was an able
man and though he scorned the appreciation of
mediocrities, like all able men, he was not averse
from a certain naïveness in displaying his
cleverness in a quiet way. From the corner of
his eyes he watched Silverdale’s face for a due
expression of surprise before he sprang any
further information. Jimmie Silverdale, how-


96 SUSPECTED
ever, showed no surprise. He gave a tiny jerk
of the head and flung a cigarette butt into the
hedge.
“So you had a reason—or fifty reasons. I
thought something of that kind was in your
mind. I’m glad I was right. It would have
hurt me to think that he got away if you really
wanted him.”
“You—you—” Garfield choked. “Why,
you scoundrel, you don’t mean to say you did
the same thing? You let him go, also?”
“I took a chance. It seemed to me that, for a
man of your experience, that slip was too easy.
You’d decided to let Eston go and it wasn’t for
me to butt in and spoil whatever you’d got in
your mind. So I did a bit of play-acting my-
self. Otherwise it wouldn’t have been con-
vincing.”
“Well, I’m not quite sure whether we’ve done
right or wrong. Eston is likely to be a handful,
but if I’d taken him then, he might have slipped
through our fingers with the help of a shrewd
lawyer. You see, legally, there is nothing
against him so far as the murder is concerned.
Actually, of course, if he didn’t kill Saxon, he is
bound up in the business. I want to know
where. He's taking big risks in a big way and
that means something. He may give us the slip
but on the whole the odds are that if we do get
anything definite to act on we’ll be able to find
him. He’s playing a game. Our last chance of


SUSPECTED 97
finding out what that game is, is, as a respected
politician put it, to ‘wait and see.’”
“You think—” Silverdale hesitated—“have
you still the idea that Hilary Sloane is con-
cerned with it?” .
“I reserve judgment. She is fitted into Es-
ton’s scheme somehow, whether as pawn or
something bigger it is hard to say. I’m as
anxious as ever to see that young lady, Jimmie,
and I’ll admit that is one reason why I played
bogey just now. Here’s a point. She and Miss
Dring are in this neighborhood somewhere, for
Eston wouldn’t have hung about merely for
play-acting with us. Velvet Fred left for Read-
ing this morning—there’s no reason why he
shouldn’t have dropped off here. Everything
points the same way.” -
“Then Hilary—Miss Sloane—”
“If it’s any relief to you, I’ll own one thing.
It looks to me more probable that Miss Sloane
is innocent than that she is guilty. This wire
she sent you rather gives one the impression
that she has become unwilling to help out Eston
and his gang, whatever her associations with
them were before. She's had some strong mo-
tive for her actions all through—if I could get
her, I’d have a lead through this tangle.”
Garfield was careful to leave himself a loop-
hole. Hilary Sloane might still be guilty,
though he had his own reasons for thinking she
might not. Jimmie was not slow to grasp the


SUSPECTED 99
not be dismissed. Getting down to this con-
crete case, there is the fact that some physical
force was necessary to tie Saxon up. There
was premeditation all through and though a
woman’s hatpin was used, in my view the
chances are that it was not a woman.”
A springiness had come into Jimmie's step as
the detective talked. A heavy weight had been
taken from his mind and he broke out into a
cheerful whistle. The chief inspector smiled
quietly at the hedge-row. Then Jimmie's
whistle broke off abruptly.
“On your theory—”
“I don’t hold theories,” interrupted Gar-
field. “They’re too dangerous for the Criminal
Investigation Department.”
“On your supposition, then, Miss Sloane is
being held a prisoner by Eston against her
Will?”
“Something of that sort. I'm not sure it’s
against her will. Eston has some hold on her.”
“Ah.” The journalist became thoughtful.
“What's the next move? How do you propose
to smoke them out?”
Garfield paused to light his pipe. Then he
stooped to brush his trousers with a handker-
chief. “Can't keep clean in the country,” he
grumbled. “Well, to tell you the truth, Jim-
mie, I propose to go through this country with
a fine-tooth comb. You can't hide three able-
bodied people in these days. It’s a sheer im-


100 SUSPECTED
A.
possibility. And just for once I’m going to look
to you to give a hand while I use my own
methods. It's up to you to become a publicity
agent. With the help of the Daily Wire, we
ought to get ’em.”
Jimmie shook his head resolutely. “No
good, Garfield. I hate to refuse but I’m not
going to drag Miss Sloane's name through the
mud and slops of a murder case.”
“Don’t lose your sense of perspective, old
lad,” said Garfield. “I don’t want to alarm
you, but you must remember that this lady is
in Eston’s power.” He brought down a heavy
fist into the palm of an open hand. “We’ve
simply got to find her. You may regret it all
your life if you neglect a single chance. Don't
use her name unless you like. But give her
description, her photograph, everything that
you can to arouse public interest. You can
tell the whole story—with discretion, of course
—but, for Heaven’s sake, get on to it, Jimmie.
You must 1”
The journalist smoked furiously while he con-
sidered the proposition. He hated the idea of
Smudging Hilary Sloane’s name by turning on
her the great searchlight of the Press. It is
not a nice thing to be associated with a cause
célèbre, however innocent one may be. Nor, in
the light of his knowledge of Garfield, was he
altogether inclined to be too trusting.
Yet, on the other hand, if the case ever


SUSPECTED 101
|
Teached a criminal court, Hilary would obvi-
ously be a witness. She could not be kept out
of the picture in the ultimate result. To hold
his hand would merely delay matters. Again,
the girl was in Eston's power. If the great
Weapon he had at his disposal could ensure that
the business would be over a week—even a day
—or an hour sooner—was it not his business to
use it? In any case he could not prevent Gar-
field from doing so. There were other papers :
than the Daily Wire—other reporters than Jim-
mie Silverdale.
“Garfield,” he said soberly, “you’ve gath-
ered that I hope to persuade Miss Sloane to
marry me some day.”
The inspector nodded. “I appreciate that,
Jimmie. If for that reason alone you should
do as I say. If I told you Eston’s reputa-
tion—”
Jimmie slipped a finger round the inside of
the tall collar he affected. “Yes—I’ll do it,” he
said slowly. “I don’t know whether I’m right
or not, but I’ll do it.”


CHAPTER XII
IT is possible that the public does not always
appreciate the fact that a paper has scored over
its rivals in the matter of news so keenly as
newspaperland itself. A “scoop” is often
rather a moral than a material triumph; but
nevertheless it is an ambition keen as a razor
edge with every editorial man on a daily paper.
Yet for purposes of his own Silverdale had
committed the deadly newspaper sin. He had
deliberately and with his eyes open sacrificed
the scoop he held regarding the disappearance
of Hilary Sloane. It was a lapse which, if
known to the mandarins of the Daily Wire,
would have caused an epidemic of apoplexy.
For the time, however, Jimmie's professional
ethics had been swamped. If publicity was to
be used in finding Hilary Sloane he was deter-
mined to use it to the nth degree if necessary.
So it was that four papers chronicled what
some of them were pleased to call the new and
startling development of the Saxon murder
story. It was the ancient hue and cry applied
by modern methods. Tens of thousands of
people suddenly found themselves discussing
with intimate interest the search for the two
girls and Eston. The public, as the news-
102


SUSPECTED 103
editor of the Daily Wire prophesied, simply
ate it.
Certain details, of course, were never pub-
lished at all. Jimmie was discreet. It was easy
to show Hilary simply as an innocent victim of
circumstance. Nor did he absolutely let his own
paper down. His personal narrative of Gar-
field’s encounter with Eston was some salve to
the Daily Wire for the escape of the main story
into the columns of its rivals.
No longer was it merely the organization of
Scotland Yard against Eston—the whole popu-
lation of the country was, so to speak, called
in to aid in the search. Yet this wholesale
method of investigation had its disadvantages.
While the newspapermen and the detectives
concentrated on the district round about Twy-
ford in an effort to pick up the scent, there be-
gan an avalanche of false trails.
Some had seen Hilary at Forest Hill, New-
castle, Glasgow, Bristol, and Cornwall. Here she
was alone, there she was accompanied by Eston
and Miss Dring. There was scarce a district in
the country where she had not been seen. Some
of the informants were hazy and general; others
were definite and circumstantial. All were
seeking to aid justice, though a few hinted that
Some more substantial recognition should be
theirs. A little sifting reduced the majority of
the stories that passed into Scotland Yard and
the newspaper offices to their true proportions,


104 SUSPECTED
but the rest caused more trouble. It is never
safe in such cases to ignore anything nor to as-
sume offhand that the unlikely is unnecessarily
untrue.
On the other hand, much was learnt about
Eston and the two girls that would have taken
weeks to gather in the ordinary way. In con-
sequence, both Garfield and Silverdale were
much engaged in office work during the day,
leaving the hunt at Twyford to others for the
time being. It was late in the afternoon that
the two met at Paddington. The chief inspector
was rubbing his hands gleefully.
“We’re beginning to move, Silver,” he said.
“I’d hate to brag but we’re likely to get to
the bottom of this show much quicker than I
expected.”
“Can you lay your hands on Eston?” asked
Jimmie.
Garfield shook his head and held open the
door of a compartment for his companion.
“All that in good time,” he said as he took his
own seat. “That’s the thing we’ll deal with
next. I’ve been more concerned to disentangle
the evidence. It’s been office work all day for
me. Have you got anything fresh?”
“Several odds and ends—I’ve sent every-
thing that seemed important up to the Yard.”
“Ah!” Garfield leaned back and stretched
his arms above his head as the train started.
“That's what I’ve been doing—juggling with


SUSPECTED 105
Odds and ends. Would it surprise you, Jimmie,
to learn that by no reasonable possibility could
Miss Sloane have committed this murder?”
“Is that your idea of humor?” queried Sil-
verdale icily. “I could have told you that.”
“In fact you did,” agreed the inspector ami-
ably. “Don’t fly off the handle, Jimmie. I
want to talk to you. I feel like Sherlock Holmes
and I need a Watson.”
“Fire ahead.” -
Garfield rammed his pipe full with tobacco,
applied a light and took one or two tentative
puffs. “Sir Harold Saxon,” he said, “was
married in the year before the war. He was
just plain Harold Saxon then and was employed
as a kind of foreman carpenter at some works
in Columbus, Ohio, U. S. A. He was married
to an English girl.”
“That stuff came from our New York men
this morning.”
“Precisely. It also came to us from Pinker-
ton's, from the Mulberry Street detective
bureau, and from other sources. I judge your
man didn’t tell you the name of the lady?”
“No.” Silverdale detected something curi-
Ous in the other’s tone.
“The girl he married,” went on the other,
“gave her name as Hilary Sloane.”
“That’s a lie.” Silverdale spoke quietly,
without emphasis, as though he had no personal
feeling at all. Garfield regarded him impas-


106 SUSPECTED
sively with a twinkle in his eye. Jimmie noted
that twinkle and it killed the dread that was
arising in his mind.
“It is not a lie. It’s the bald truth. What’s
more, it’s plausible. The only thing against it
is that Miss Sloane has never been in America.
We’ve carried her record back to her school
days and we know for a certainty. Can you
begin to put two and two together, Jimmie?”
The journalist leaned forward. It was easy
to see that his mind was working fast. “If
Hilary was not in America and Saxon married
a Hilary Sloane, she may have had a name-
sake 9 y
“I thought of that. It’s straining coinci-
dence pretty far,” commented the other
dryly.
“It’s so wild that it must be out of the
question. Therefore someone must have as-
sumed Hilary Sloane’s name—someone who
knew her and who wished to be married in an
assumed name. Probably the girl had no defi-
nite reason for taking that name, rather than
any other. Suppose it's—by Heaven, Gar-
field I?’
Garfield's eyes were still twinkling. “I’m
supposing nothing off-hand because I hope to
know as soon as the mail can carry a photo-
graph. No use in drawing inferences when one
can establish facts. We’ll keep our guesses on
the identity of the lady out of it. Now I'm


SUSPECTED 107
going to switch to another interesting point.
Saxon was being blackmailed.”
“That doesn't altogether surprise me. In
fact, some of the information we've received
about him at the office would show that he'd
given opportunities before the war.”
“He wasn’t worth powder and shot from a
blackmailer's point of view before he'd got
money,” agreed Garfield. “Now we're getting
close up to it. His bank account shows gaps
that no reasonable explanation but blackmail
will cover.”
“Surely he never paid by check?”
“Not on your life. I never knew a black-
mailer who liked checks. No, Saxon was in
80me ways a very methodical man. He kept a
private account book in which he indicated his
Own expenditure. Now, over the last six or
eight months he drew no less than £3,700—quite
apart from his own personal expenditure which
he showed clearly—in sums ranging from £1,000
to £400. Contrary to his usual habits, he pre-
Sented a check himself and drew it in small
notes. Now that is quite a sum and small notes
are hard to trace. The last payment was made
six months ago.
“That,” went on Garfield, “narrows things
down. It may have been his wife; it may have
been someone else. I suspect that Eston has
had a hand in it. It is quite likely that he had
°ome to know that Saxon had married someone


108 SUSPECTED
who called herself Hilary Sloane. Whether he
knew or not that she was Saxon’s real wife is a
point one cannot be certain of. If he believed
she was actually Lady Saxon, it would explain
much of his methods at the moment—for the
real Lady Saxon will hold a large interest in
the fortune that the dead man has left. Eston
always plays for big stakes.
“Now here is a hypothesis which may be
right or wrong, but which gives us a working
assumption for the moment. Suppose Eston
was the blackmailer and suppose Saxon had at
last got tired of being bled and made a stand.
Eston might very well decide to play the big
game—even though it meant murder. He might
see his way to get the girl he believed to be
Saxon’s wife under his control—and with
Saacon’s fortune. Do you follow?”
Jimmie made a gesture of assent. “I can
see holes in your reasoning, but I believe you're
on the line. That would explain why Eston was
so anxious to enlist me—if he thought I had
influence with Hilary Sloane. But all this, as
you say, is assumption.”
“Yes—but it's assumption, old lad, that fits a
very complicated set of facts. I don’t pretend
that I could go straightaway and prove it. If
it's right, however, we’ll be able to bring it
home all right. Eston has associates in a game
of this kind and that will be the weak spot in his
armor. I never did believe that there was any.


SUSPECTED 109
thing in the proverb in there being honor among
thieves. If crooks could trust one another the
world would be hopelessly at their mercy and
Scotland Yard worse than useless.”
Silverdale flung the butt of his cigarette
through the window and rolled a new one. The
situation revealed was, as Garfield said, a work-
ing hypothesis and might very well shatter to
pieces when brought face to face with practical
facts. Still it gave a reason, a motive for
many happenings which had hitherto seemed
purposeless.
There was only one point on which Garfield
had not touched. If Eston thought Hilary was
Saxon's wife—or rather widow—there was one
obvious way certain to occur to him by which
he could make sure of Saxon’s fortune. It
might be part of his plan to marry her—or at-
tempt to marry her. Jimmie thought it highly
unlikely that she would ever agree, whatever
pressure was brought to bear upon her. That
pressure could be brought to bear, there was no
doubt. He set his shoulders squarely and his
lips pressed to a thin, straight line as he con-
templated the possibilities of the methods that
a man such as Eston might bring to bear on a
girl like Hilary.
“What do you think?” asked Garfield.
“I think,” said Jimmie decisively, “that the
800ner we lay hands on Hilary, the better it will
be for all of us. I hate to think of what may


CHAPTER XIII
A PUNT shot out from the dappled shadow of
willows fringing the backwater and slid slowly
by a solitary flower-covered house-boat. It was
a house-boat such as may be seen on almost any
reach of the Thames in summer, with its upper
deck fringed with geraniums and calceolarias,
its windows daintily curtained and a flanneled
figure lounging in a deck chair. It lay hidden
from the main stream, yet not so far away but
that it was easily accessible.
The man in the deck chair dropped his book
and yawned. As he stretched himself, however,
a close observer might have seen that he never
took his eyes from the punt until it disappeared
round the bend. A few seconds later, a double-
oared rowing skiff appeared from the opposite
direction and moored inconspicuously some two
hundred yards from the house-boat; so incon-
spicuously that it would scarce be noticed from
the latter craft through the green promontory
behind which it sheltered, unless one were look-
ing for it. The man on the house-boat frowned.
“They’re at work,” he muttered. “I was a
blamed fool to give the show away, as I did.
We've been under observation for the last three
hours. Well, we'll see.”
111


112 SUSPECTED
He rose languidly and entered the little saloon
in which two girls were seated. Hilary was
reading and Nora was bending over a water-
color sketch. Both looked up as he entered.
“Well, ladies,” he observed, “you will be
sorry to learn that your stay in this idyllic spot
is drawing to a close. As a humble old friend
of mine used to remark: “The 'ounds is out.’”
A light of apprehension leapt into Nora’s
green eyes. “The police—” she began.
He nodded. “Our worthy friends from Scot-
: land Yard reinforced, no doubt, by the alert
mind of our young friend Silverdale are on to
* - us. They have got us picketed and are playing
a waiting game just now. I fancy they are not
quite sure enough to pounce. If you go out-
side, Miss Dring, and look carefully to the right,
you will see a boat near the bank with two men
in it.”
Nora rose with a swish of skirts and passed
out, a charming figure in white, to view the
watchers in their seclusion. Eston turned with
a smile to Hilary. “This rather forces my
hand, Miss Sloane. It will be awkward if they
should take it into their heads to try to effect
an arrest.” -
Hilary placed one hand at the back of her
neck and looked up at him. She was all in
white—a picture of summer. A hint of amuse-
ment flickered round her lips. “Yes,” she an-
swered placidly. “I suppose it would be awk-


SUSPECTED 113
Ward—for you. I don’t see why you should
drag me into your sudden upheaval of con-
Science.”
“My dear young lady,” he said suavely.
“You know as well as I do that if I stood aside
and let matters take their course, you would be
in peril of a very alarming experience. Do you
- realize that you are suspected of the murder of
Sir Harold Saxon? Do you understand?”
The girl smiled, a half-mocking, cynical smile.
“I understand—that,” she said. “There are
lots of things I don't understand. Why, for in-
. stance, you should take such a very great in-
terest in a comparative stranger—so great an
interest that you abduct me and make me a
prisoner on this boat. I know that you employ
men to watch me night and day. Is this just
Pure altruism on your part to help a suspected
murderess to escape, or what? It has been a
quaint little episode and I’ve enough of the
Šypsy in me to have enjoyed it in a sense, but
I'm a little tired of it now. Really, I'm not
*fraid of the police—are you?”
There was challenge in her gray eyes—a con-
ºmptuous challenge which somehow worried
him. Threats, tears, entreaties—he would have
OWn how to meet them, but this cool, non-
*alant attitude was calculated to disconcert
*Wen so adroit a man as Eston.
“You’re a cool hand,” he said admiringly.
| "Jove, what a pair we should make—you and I


SUSPECTED 115
not responsible for myself when I am in your
presence, Hilary. You madden me—I want
you—”
“That will do,” she broke in. “I don’t know
which I dislike most—your love-making or your
veiled threats. I’m not a child, Mr. Eston. In
future, you will keep your hands from me. I’m
in your power for the moment but a time will
come—” She broke off and trilled with a
merry burst of laughter. “Oh, I’m talking like
the heroine in a melodrama. Yet I don’t see
why not. This is all sheer melodrama and you
make an admirable villain. If you’d only tell
me what it is all about—but leave out my Chris-
tian name, please. I have a prejudice in favor
of that being used only by friends of my own
Sex.”
He took a glance through the muslin curtains
aCrOSS the cool sheen of the river and made up
his mind to play his hand for all it was worth.
“You said just now that you were not afraid of
the police. Do you mean that?”
“Mean it? Of course I mean it. Why
shouldn't I?”
“You accuse me of keeping you a prisoner,”
he went on quietly. “You say I've abducted
You and am holding you against your will. Very
Well. The police are there,”—he pointed across
the river—“close at hand, well within earshot.
You have only to raise your voice and you will
bring them here.”


SUSPECTED 117
“Really?” she lifted her eyebrows in mock
º Surprise. a
. “Yes, Miss Sloane, I hold you—ah,” he
hesitated a second as though to add emphasis
to his next words. “I beg your pardon,
perhaps I should not address you as Miss
º Sloane.”
“If you must address me at all I see no rea-
80m why you shouldn’t. To be frank, you rather
bore me; I’d rather you were dangerous than
a bore.” She swung a white shoe idly to and
fro. “Your ace of trumps will fail you, you
know.”
“I think not,” he declared. “If you will con-
tinue to push your head in the sand I must dis-
illusion you as to what I know—and what the
police probably know. I apologized for calling
you Miss Sloane just now. Should I have said
—Lady Saxon?”
Hilary Sloane's foot came abruptly to the
floor. Astonishment, bewilderment was in her
face. “Lady Saxon,” she repeated.
His lean fingers were drumming steadily on
the tablecloth, while he studied her face search-
ingly. “Why not?” he asked calmly. “Legally
and technically I think you are entitled to the
name. I must congratulate you on your attitude
at this moment. You are a picture of innocent
astonishment. Did anyone ever tell you that
You have all the qualities of a consummate
actress? If I were not sure—if I did not have


118 SUSPECTED
definite proof–you would almost shake my
faith in myself.” * -
She laughed. “So I'm Lady Saxon, am II
This is your ace of trumps. I suppose this ex-
plains your vivid and paternal interest in me?
I am sorry I called you a bore. Your qualities
of imagination are sometimes entertaining.
Please continue.”
“I will,” he said grimly. “You married
Barold Saxon when he was a nonentity. For
some reason you lived apart when he came to
this country to build up a fortune as well as a
title. You will probably be interested to a large
extent in the fortune he acquired. Let me be
blunt. Whether you live to enjoy it or not de-
pends upon me, upon my silence and upon my
aid.”
“I see.” She was still smiling. “I am Lady
Saxon, I am a murderess. I am likely to inherit
a huge fortune. That’s what it all comes to,
doesn’t it?” -
“Put it that way, if you like.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her
eyes. “Do you know what an accessory after
the fact is, Mr. Eston?” He scowled at her.
Without waiting for a reply, she went on. “It
is very noble of you to risk penal servitude in
your endeavor to shield me—a widow with a
past, a murderess!”
“Let’s have done with this nonsense,” he
said peremptorily.


SUSPECTED 119
“It’s not nonsense, I’m just analyzing the
position. You want to marry me. Surely I am
entitled to consider things? It would be an in-
justice to saddle so chivalrous a man as your-
self with a sordid, wretched woman such as I.
Don’t you agree with me? And yet I see no
way for you to acquire the money without me.
It's a problem, isn’t it?”
Eston studied her doubtfully. His clever-
ness, all of the many years’ experience of human
nature which he had gained failed him in his
attempt to diagnose what was at the back of the
girl’s mind. She had him guessing—and he
was a man who hated to be in doubt.
“Does that mean that you climb down?—
that you are agreeing to marry me after
all???
She swept him a low curtsy. “It means,”
she said, “that, much though I appreciate
your generous offer, I must decline with
thanks.”
He turned abruptly on his heel and swung
round again as he reached the doorway, with
an expression not pleasant to see.
“I’ll have you on your knees yet, whining for
me to lift a finger. We’ll see who’s top dog—
and don’t you forget it! Meanwhile, you had
better get ready to leave this place in half an
hour.”
Her features puckered in a grimace that was
lost on Eston as he closed the door.


120 SUSPECTED
“Top dog,” she murmured. “Yes, we'll see
who does come out top dog. If I can keep my
temper and my wits, I think I know who it will
be.”


CHAPTER XIV
WANITY was not one of Eston's faults. He was
too big a crook to let wounded feelings affect
his judgment as a general rule. Yet he was
hurt. His confidence in himself, that natural
equanimity and confidence that comes to every
citizen of the world—had been shaken. He
prided himself on his judgment of men and
Women, but Hilary Sloane had him guessing.
He was very much more puzzled, perhaps, than
he would have cared to admit.
He had her in a cleft stick—he could break
her as he could a twig–but her attitude sug-
gested either that she did not realize, or that
She did not care. It was impossible to believe
that she did not realize. She was too clever a
girl for that. He had left her no loophole for
misunderstanding. Either she was staking
ºverything upon a colossal bluff, or she was act-
tºwn some knowledge that had not reached
Eston never played a small game, save on
thºse exceptional cases, when it was a question
of bread and butter—as a great actor or artist
*y at times descend to pot-boilers. It was a
big stake hero. He had planned his effects
"adly. None knew better than he that some
121


122 SUSPECTED
-
small trivial detail might wreck his whole
scheme, and it was only force of circumstances
that had made him bring off his coup before
he was entirely ready. The more he cogitated,
the keener grew his conviction, that he did not
hold the entire threads. If Silverdale had been
reasonable, if he had been able to pick up any-
thing when he had encountered Garfield and the
journalist! He clenched his fists and swore
softly to himself.
Now things were getting red-hot. He had
made a point of seeing the morning’s papers,
and was quick to realize what he was up against.
The whole world was looking for Hilary Sloane
—a fact of which she was at the moment igno-
rant but which, sooner or later, she would know.
Moreover, the house-boat was no longer a secure
hiding-place. At any moment—he glanced over
his shoulder towards the white-flanneled men in
the skiff—the police might pounce. If he only
knew what they knew, how much they knew—
his features contorted in a spasm of irritation—
he would know whether to put up a fight or a
bluff.
The world seldom appreciates the qualities
that make a great criminal. He has often to
conduct a fight against overwhelming odds. The
strength and weakness of his position is the
fact that he must conduct his operations in
secret. He dare not let his identity or his real
purpose be known. He is blindfolded against


SUSPECTED 123
antagonists using every resource of science and
organization—a very Ishmael of civilization.
He stakes his knowledge of human nature
against a solid system and when he wins out, he
has earned any satisfaction he gets.
By nature and by inclination, Eston was a
fighter. He fought, as the Germans fought, for
an end, and regardless of means. He wanted
money; he wanted power; he wanted ease and
Security. The simplest, most direct way had
seemed to him to be to steal. The chief differ-
ence between him and a casual burglar or pick-
pocket was one of method. Brains tell in crime,
as in other branches of professional livelihood,
and to brains Eston had wedded a long and
Varied experience. Audacity—audacity—al-
Ways audacity. The old French saying had won
him through tight places again and again.
Others may have suffered, but always Eston
Went free. -
He paced the deck once or twice, turning mat-
ters over in his mind, when he became aware
that Nora Dring had disappeared. He searched
* bank with his eyes up and down the fringe
ºf shrubs and trees that ran for fifty yards
each side of the house-boat.
“Miss Dring—Nora!”
There was no answer. He muttered a curse
beneath his breath. Women were the very devil
and all. If a girl had wanted to vanish, she
could not have chosen a more inopportune time.
º


SUSPECTED 125
been here this last minute or two. Probably she
Went out before them.”
“Thanks. It’s likely,” agreed Eston, accept-
ing what he knew to be a lie.
Leaning against the gate, with folded arms,
he eyed the road up and down, and again lifted
his voice in a shout. If Nora Dring was within
earshot, which was doubtful, she made no re-
Sponse. Eston stretched his arms.
“No luck! I wonder where she's got to?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure,” said the other,
staring straight in front of him with absorption.
Eston was not easily put off. If Nora was
Out of earshot, it was likely that any shadower
Would be also.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” said he, making
the opening gambit of a man willing for desul-
tory conversation.
“Grand,” admitted the other shortly.
“I fancy we may get a thunder-storm before
long. This is much too good to last.”
Eston's right hand was fumbling in the
p0cket of his jacket.
“Yes, that’s so.”
The watcher did not seem much in the mood
for conversation. He shifted his legs to a more
comfortable grip of the gate, and puffed away
Seremely, the while his gaze wandered far away
Over Eston's head. He was more absorbed than
ever in the view.
“Boating?” asked Eston.


126 SUSPECTED
“Not exactly. Just down for an hour or
tWO.”
“Well, it’s a beautiful part of the river. If
you see a young lady, you might tell her that
I’ve been looking for her. My name’s Eston.”
He turned, as if to go, but he was watching
very closely. The man on the gate seemed quite
uninterested. If he recognized the name, he
showed no sign. He nodded, and puffed a cloud
of smoke.
“Right-ohl I'll tell her.”
Eston had taken one pace back towards the
house-boat when he wheeled swiftly. There was
a sheen of blue as he lifted his hand. The man
on the gate found himself looking down the blue
barrel of an automatic pistol. He pulled his
pipe from his mouth, and remained a picture of
amazement.
“What the dev–1”
“Cut that!” ordered Eston sharply. “I’m in
a hurry! Get down from that gate! Hear me?
Get down!”
“If it's money you want,” protested the
other man, “I’ve only got a matter of ten
shillings y 2
Eston’s left hand gripped him by the arm,
while the muzzle of his pistol was stealing within
a couple of inches of his face. The man clam-
bered down hastily, dropping his pipe as he
did so.
“Don’t argue,” insisted Eston. “I’m a des-
–


SUSPECTED 127
perate man, and you’ll be wise to do exactly
as you’re told. I’m ready to take a chance.
Now, march straight in front of you, and don’t
look back or make a sound. Get me?”
‘‘I get you. I’d like my pipe, if you don’t
mind. It’s a good pipe, and I’d hate to lose it.”
He stooped, fingers outstretched towards the
brier, and suddenly, sprawling at full length,
grasped Eston’s legs. Had Eston not been on
the alert, it is possible the ruse might have suc-
ceeded. His fingers closed on the trigger, but
in that fraction of a second sanity returned to
him. The sound of a shot would be too risky,
for investigation by those other watchers on the
river would be near and prompt. He reversed
*he weapon as he dodged, and the butt fell
heavily on the prostrate man’s head. He gave
a s t, sobbing sigh, and lay limp.
“The darned fool!” grunted Eston, and
wiped the weapon carefully with a handful of
grass. Then he lifted the unconscious man and
bore him to a heavy clump of gorse, where he
deposite H his burden. Then deftly and swiftly
he made a search of the other’s pockets. It re-
vealed little that he did not know—a watch, a
little money, a few private letters, a police diary
and notebod's, and a warrant-card, such as is
carried by all men of the Criminal Investiga-
tion Depart, ment.
“I thought so,” commented Eston grimly,
, and transferred the letters to his own pockets.


130 SUSPECTED
Eston moved from his concealment.
The big individual slouched on, apparently
unheeding, until a detaining hand touched him
on the shoulder.
“You have been annoying a lady friend of
mine,” said Eston, a note of sternness in his
voice. “What do you mean by it?”
“Lemme alone, guv'nor,” said the man. “I
ain’t interfered with no lidy friend of yours.
What d'yer take me for?”
Eston saw a figure round a bend towards
them—the man Nora Dring had referred to as
Jim. Away in the distance came the faint hoot
of a motor-car.
“I take you for a condemned fool,” he said.
“That’s enough of it—understand! This is
where you get off, my friend, if you don’t want
to fall into the hands of the police. You don’t
come any further down this road. Clear out!”
The detective hesitated. Eston was treating
him as any man might treat a tramp, and that
was what the detective supposed that he was
believed to be. It was his duty to keep obser-
vation, as the official phrase goes, on Eston and
his party. He had followed Nora Dring be-
cause she came to the house-boat. She was ob-
viously on her way back to her comrade, and he
would be certain to pick her up. It was his
plain duty to drop her and keep an eye on Eston
himself.
“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick,


SUSPECTED 131
guv'nor,” he protested. “Still, it’s all one to
me. I’ll turn round the other way if you want
me to.”
“I’ll walk with you a bit of the way,” said
Eston, and pushed his hand through the other’s
arm. Jim was close upon them now—a wiry,
bronzed young man, with America as the coun-
try of his origin shrieking all over him, from
his round hat, his loose, long-skirted coat, and
his wide, creased trousers and his small boots
with the toes curving inward. Jim was a
“strong arm”—an ally useful on occasions like
this. He was walking swiftly, and he caught
Eston’s almost imperceptible nod as they
neared each other.
The attack was so swift and so sudden that
the detective probably never realized exactly
how it happened. Eston had disentangled his
arm, and with a tigerish movement sprang on
him from behind with a throttle-hold that
choked back the first alarmed cry. His arm was
round the other's mouth and nose, his knee in
his back, and Jim had his hands in the detec-
tive’s hair, pulling him forward.
The struggle was sharp but short. It was a
matter of seconds before the man was as help-
less as a baby, face downwards in the dust.
From somewhere in an inside pocket Jim pro-
duced a short, yielding length of material about
an inch in diameter and eighteen inches long.
A sandbag is a deadly weapon in experienced


132 SUSPECTED
hands. Eston drew back, and his companion
administered what seemed to be the slightest
tap on the back of the neck.
The struggles of the detective ceased, and
Eston rose.
“Not overdone it, have you?” he asked, more
in a tone of casual curiosity than of one doubt-
ful whether he has or has not assisted at
murder.
“I should smile,” said Jim, scornful at the
aspersion on his dexterity, running his fingers
over the sandbag and stowing it away in his
pocket. “The guy won’t know what’s given
him a headache in a couple of hours’ time.”


CHAPTER XV
Eston’s reasons for assuming that there would
be no immediate move on the part of the police
were sound as far as they went. He had rea-
soned that they would be content to watch for
the time being since they had not paused when
they came within view of their quarry. There
was only one flaw in his reasoning. That was
Detective-Sergeant Wade. Wade had all that
day been acting as Garfield’s deputy during the
latter’s absence, and had obeyed instructions by
having an eye kept on Eston until Garfield
should decide to take active steps. Wade was
enjoying the relief from routine duty in town,
and since he saw a way to combine business
with pleasure, he was one of the white-flanneled
figures in the skiff that had aroused attention
from the house-boat. -
Now Wade had a high appreciation of Es-
ton’s capacity—in ingenuity of resource he
knew himself far outmatched, but he had a bull-
dog tenacity that served him very often nearly
as well as delicate finesse. He was not an easy
man to throw off once he had got his teeth fixed.
So it was that he did not altogether rely on the
men who were watching the landward side of
Eston’s retreat.
133


SUSPECTED 135
up the two and disappear in a cloud of dust.
If Wade had been less stirred, he would have
recognized the futility of men on foot chasing
a fast car. Yet he held doggedly on, hoping,
perhaps, for some remote chance. The car was
long out of sight when they reached the main
road into which the by-lane led. Wade col-
lapsed, panting, to the side of a ditch.
“A clean get-away!” he gasped. “And me
thinking we’d got 'em corked up nice and tight.
Not even got the number of their car—though
that would be a fat lot of use. I expect it’s
faked!” -
His companion was gazing up the dusty, white
strip of road towards Twyford.
“They’re coming back!” he announced.
“No such luck,” groaned Wade, but stirred
himself so far as to rise and watch the cloud
of dust that was rapidly approaching them. It
resolved itself into a big four-seater, and drew
to a standstill as it neared them.
“Here’s luck,” said Wade. “It’s the guv'-
nor.”
Jimmie Silverdale was at the wheel, and
seated by his side, cool and imperturbable, a
flower in his buttonhole, was Garfield. He
nodded to his “aide.”
“Got 'em bottled up safe still, eh?”
Wade groaned.
“Did you pass a big car going hell for leather
a few minutes ago?”


136 SUSPECTED
Both Silverdale and Garfield jumped to the
situation in a flash. As simultaneous ejacula-
tions burst from them, Wade wagged his head
in assent. -
“That’s them! They’ve slipped us!”
“Have they?” said Garfield resolutely.
“We’ll see! Jump in, Wadel”
Jimmie was already backing the big car
round. Wade turned to his companion on their
fruitless run.
“Slip back to see what has become of our
other two men. I’ll get along with Mr. Gar-
field. Right you are, sir! Go ahead!”
Garfield left Jimmie to himself and took his
seat in the tonneau with Wade.
“I’d blame some men for a business like
this,” he said, “but I know you’ve done every-
thing that could be done. Tell me about it. Let
her out, Jimmie, we’ve got to overtake them!”
“If we’d only thought,” answered Jimmie.
“We had 'em practically in our hands.”
“No good crying over spilt milk,” said the
inspector. “We couldn’t hold up every car we
met on the offchance that Eston was in it.
We'd have a lively time! We’ve got a sport-
ing chance of catching them. They wouldn't
expectiºus to be off the mark so soon. Now,
then, Wadel”
Jimmife pulled at the lever, and the great car
slid smoothly forward, gaining momentum with
every inch. For once all such things as speed


SUSPECTED 137
limits were forgotten. All that mattered was
overtaking the fugitives—if, indeed such a thing
was possible.
Given a good car not too distinctive in ap-
pearance, with a start that enables it to get well
out of sight on a network of roads, and the odds
are against any successful pursuit, even in an
equally good car. In something less than half an
hour the futility of the chase became apparent.
Since this is a plain story, an apology is due to
the reader for the failure of Garfield and Silver-
dale to follow up a trail that would have been
inevitable—to the reader of detective novels.
They might, for instance, have followed the dis-
tinctive imprint of Eston’s tires on the road—
if there had been any distinctive imprint, which
there was not. Their inquiries, necessarily
vague, met with still vaguer replies. At every
crossroads they lost time, and there was no cer-
tainty, after all their trouble, that they were
not moving in an opposite direction to that
taken by Eston and his companions.
Silverdale pulled the car up, and looked over
his shoulder at the detective. -
“It’s no go!” he proclaimed ruefully.
“We’re up against it!” -
Garfield got out of the body of the car, and
resumed his seat by Silverdale.
“If we ha-' ' ' ', 43 l #& Tºgwile tºtal, as
* ~e passed, he said. “However, it's the luck


138 SUSPECTED
of the game. We’ll get back to Twyford, Jim-
mie.”
They reached the spot where they had picked
up Wade in less than an hour from the time
they had left it and made their way through
the lane leading to the house-boat. Among the
detectives now concentrated on that flower-
bedecked craft were two bruised and discon-
certed men who were looking forward none too
eagerly to their interview with the chief
inspector.
He listened quietly while they told their
stories in the blunt, matter-of-fact way that po-
lice officers affect in their relations with their
superiors.
“The plain fact is,” he commented, “that
Eston was too clever for both of you. He
played you for a couple of nickers.”
Garfield took off his coat and got to business.
It needed no practiced eye to see that the de-
parture of the fugitives had been taken without
pre-arrangement. Presently the inspector’s eye
lit on a white square on a small table. He
picked it up.
“Hallo, Jimmie!” he said. “This looks as
if it belonged to you!”
He handed over a small envelope. Jimmie
turned it over in his hand. It was addressed:
5vaðilverdaing mos
Very private. By Courtesy of the Police." ',


SUSPECTED 139
-
* postman for a
r Garfield “I’ll hazard a bet
*n your little lady friend


CHAPTER, XVI
DURING the temporary absence of Nora Dring
and Eston from the house-boat, Hilary had
used her opportunities. She knew that once
they had accomplished their flight, it would only
be a matter of time before the police would be
at their river hiding-place. And something
brought it home to her that with the police
would come Jimmie Silverdale. She could have
given few logical reasons for this assumption.
She just knew, instinctively. She had penned
her message in wild feverish haste, always on
the alert for the return of either of her com-
panions and she had concluded hurriedly.
Jimmie Silverdale seated himself on a small
table, his legs swinging, and began to read.
Garfield jerked his head peremptorily and the
other detectives moved silently out of the tiny
saloon, leaving the inspector and the journalist
alone.
“What does she say?” asked Garfield. “That
won’t be exactly a confidential love letter, if
I’m any judge.”
A slight tinge of red crept into the other's
sallow cheek. He shook his head laughingly.
“No,” he agreed. “You shall read it in a

140


142 SUSPECTED
self secretly from town, I was doing so at her
request. She had come to the studio after a
night’s absence distraught beyond measure and
begged me to help her. We had been friends
for many years and as I thought had no secrets
from each other. Now she was faced with some
awful calamity of which she would give me no
hint beyond the fact that the police would prob-
ably be seeking her. She clung to me like a
frightened child, weeping and beseeching that I
would not leave her. What could I do? We
had been friends—with a friendship even ex-
ceeding that of sisters—for years. So I prom-
ised and sent for you. The secret was not my
own. I could tell you nothing.
“It was next morning when you called for us
that I realized part of the possible truth, but
even then I could not credit that she, any more
than myself, could be a possible murderess. I
had to play the game by her, Jimmie. Even
when I saw that you misunderstood, I had to
play the game.
“There are many things dark to me in this
story, sequences that perhaps you may be able
to fill, gaps that you may bridge with your fuller
knowledge and opportunities for inquiry. You
said that Sir Harold Saxon had a photograph
of mine. How that came to be I cannot tell.
T never set eyes on the man alive in my life.
“My acquaintance with Eston dates back
scarcely a fortnight. I met him first with Nora


144 SUSPECTED
derstand that I was their prisoner—that any
attempt at defiance would be met by the story
that I was a lunatic.
“I had enough confidence in myself to face a
public scene if necessary—but a public scene
there would have meant the probable revelation
of my identity and you had said enough to let
me know that I stood in peril of arrest by the
police should they once know where to find me.
I was a coward. I could not face that sordid
and unnecessary publicity. So I accepted
things as they were, but I managed to get a
wire sent off to you.
“It was to this boat that I was brought.
There was no physical constraint upon me,
though through the silky, oily manner of Eston,
I could read his full intention not to hesitate if
need be. In some way I was essential to a great
conspiracy which was on foot. At that time I
had not the remotest idea what it might mean.
If Nora and Eston were concerned with the
murder of Sir Harold Saxon, why did they
trouble themselves about me? I thought then
that they might believe I should be a witness
against them—but even so, why should they
handicap themselves? Three people are easier
to trace than two.
“Nora has to this moment made no explana-
tion; indeed her manner has been, if not coldly
brutal, at least repellent. She has given me to
understand that I must obey orders, if neces-


SUSPECTED 145
sary. Eston is suave and, I fear, dangerous.
Behind all this business, there is some mys-
tery, some motive that I cannot penetrate. I
feel baffled, like one groping vainly in the
dark.
“Less than an hour ago, he paid me the
compliment of offering me marriage. I am
afraid I did one indiscreet thing with such a
man—I laughed at him. He pointed out that
the police were, even then, within eyeshot of us
and that they believed me to be guilty of a ter-
rible crime. Now Eston is a shrewd man and I
am not conceited enough to believe that he is
taking the risks he must be taking for the sake
of my beautiful eyes! There is a nigger in the
wood-pile somewhere, and through Eston’s hurt
vanity, when I mocked him, I caught a glimpse
—the merest glimpse.
“This man may, or may not, believe that I
am a guilty woman. He certainly believes that
I have been closely associated with the late
Saxon—that I am in fact his widow. It all
sounds wildly fantastic and incredible, doesn’t
it, Jimmie? It would be funny, if it were not
so tragic! So this abduction—if it is an abduc-
tion—has been arranged for the sake of marry-
ing me off to a man who wishes to lay his fingers
on a colossal fortune left by Sir Harold Saxon.
The scheme has more intricate complications,
perhaps, than the bald statement can suggest
and I am not quite clear how far Nora is in-
º
|


146 SUSPECTED
volved, except that she is acting as a sort of
female jailer upon me.
“I am ashamed to confess that Eston makes
an astute guess at my feelings and my fears
for, during this afternoon’s scene, he challenged
me to raise my voice and call the police who
were watching. I wanted to, and yet somehow
I. dare not. I am just a little coward. If I
am to be talked about as I realize I must be in
the end, I want to clear myself of the faintest
taint of suspicion. By remaining for the mo-
ment with Nora and Eston, I may be enabled to
reach the heart of the mystery.
“I hear Nora returning. I must stop. Love
—H.”
Jimmie turned the four pages of closely
written letter paper over and over and stared
blankly at Garfield. The chief inspector held
out a hand impatiently and took the missive.
Silverdale rolled himself a cigarette and strik-
ing a match on the sole of his boot, smoked in
silence while Garfield with wrinkled brows di-
‘gested Hilary’s message.
“Well?” he asked at last.
“Pity she hadn’t time to be more detailed,”
observed the detective. “She’s a clever young
lady and Eston apparently has found her a
bigger handful than he anticipated. She has
put her finger on the heart of the mys-
tery.”
Silverdale elevated expressive eyebrows. “A


SUSPECTED - 147
conspiracy to grab all the money Saxon made?”
“Not the slightest doubt of it. Eston ob-
wiously believes that she is Lady Harold Saxon,
which is one of the points at which his clever-
mess is going to lead him into trouble. Equally
certain is the fact that he feels confident—or
probably knows for certain—that Miss Sloane
had nothing to do with the murder.”
The journalist surveyed his companion with
a slightly puzzled air. “I don’t quite get
that,” he said. “If Eston, as is the most likely
hypothesis, either killed Saxon himself or knows
who did, of course he realizes that Hilary is
innocent. But there is nothing in her letter
to suggest that.”
Garfield wore a slightly superior smile. He
loved a little mystification. “Did it escape you,
Jimmie, that Miss Sloane tells how he offered to
marry her?”
“From all I know of Eston he wouldn’t worry
much whether his wife had a little thing like
murder on her conscience.”
“No? I am surprised at your ignorance of
law, Jimmie. The moral side might not weigh
with Eston at all, but other things would. A
murderer cannot benefit from the death of his
victim. If Hilary Sloane really had killed
Harold Saxon, even if she were his wife, she
could not legally obtain a penny of his estate.
She would be barred from any benefit. Now,
Eston wants to marry her because it will give


148 SUSPECTED
him a finger in the loot. Therefore he is con-
fident she has a claim.”
“Thanks,” said Jimmie dryly. “Meanwhile,
perhaps you can make a guess at the lady who
posed as Hilary Sloane when she married
Saxon. It seems to me that the real Lady
Saxon is a nigger in the wood-pile, as Hilary
puts it.”
“You don’t want a microscope to see a barn
door, Jimmie,” observed Garfield with cryptic
emphasis. “If dead certainties didn’t so often
turn out wrong, I'd make a little bet with you
that I could give the lady’s name. All that
can be fixed up later. Meanwhile, I think we’ll
get back to town.”
“Why?”
“Jimmie, neither your brain nor your ob-
servation is working at full pressure. You’re
too closely concerned with thinking of Hilary
Sloane to do yourself full justice. See here?”
He placed a broad thumb-mail on the reverse
of Hilary’s envelope, where a tiny faintly pen-
ciled word could be seen.
“Miss Sloane got a hint of their destination
at the last moment and passed it on for us,” he
went on.
The faintly penciled word was “London.”


CHAPTER XVII
IF Eston had returned to London, there were
ways and means of smoking him out. Part of
the way back to town, Garfield occupied with
pencil and paper. Long before they reached
the western outskirts, he had drawn up instruc-
tions that on his arrival at Scotland Yard would
be flashed over the private wires to every one
of the two hundred police stations in the
metropolis.
There are more than six hundred detectives
in London, to say nothing of twenty thousand or
more of the uniformed force. The instructions
would automatically reach both, but it was on
the Criminal Investigation Department that
Garfield chiefly relied. Velvet Fred was, in the
hackneyed phrase, well known to the police, and
Jim, who had assisted in overpowering one of
Garfield’s staff, was perhaps not less well known
as ‘‘Knuckleduster”—a young international
crook who had played a prominent part in sev-
eral bank “hold-ups” in the United States, and
was believed to be a leading spirit in several
daring diamond robberies that had been effected
in London.
Eston himself was only a name to most detec-
tives; he was too clever to have ever become

149


152 SUSPECTED
mation and is sometimes sought out as Wade
was now seeking him. Seldom is there any re-
luctance to talk, save through fear of self-
interest. Every man with whom Wade spoke
that evening guessed that the detective’s casual
inquiry had something behind it, yet they were
willing enough to talk so long as they them-
selves were not concerned.
Although the detective learned much of which
he made a mental note for future reference, he
gained little to his immediate purpose for some
hours. After a time, however, he strolled into
a little public house in the network of streets
between Oxford Street and Leicester Square
and his eyes roved casually round the habitués.
A thin, weedy-looking youth caught that
glance and immediately tried to melt among a
group of people at one of the little tables.
Wade smiled beneath his mustache and moved
forward, looking anywhere but in the direction
of the youth. The other sighed heavily with
relief and tried to make an unobtrusive exit.
He had about reached the door when Wade’s
hand fell on his shoulder and he started vio-
lently.
“Feeling pretty shy to-night, Jack. What
are you trying to dodge me for?”
“Why, it’s Mr. Wadel” Jack made an ef-
fort to conceal profound astonishment. “I
wasn’t trying to dodge you, sir. I was just
going.”


SUSPECTED 153
Wade tucked his arm through that of his vic-
tim and felt him shivering like a tracked rabbit.
“So I see,” he remarked pleasantly. “Well,
there’s no need to be in a hurry. Come and
have one with me. Don’t get wind up, my lad.
I’ve got nothing against you just now.”
“Sure, Mr. Wade,” agreed Jack obsequi-
ously, but disengaging his arm with a certain
relief. “This is our man. What’ll you 'ave?”
“Dry ginger, please,” said Wade with in-
ward nausea. “I’m on the water wagon for a
bit. Well, here’s luck. How’s things going
with you?”
For a while conversation rambled round vari-
ous points until at last Wade brought it to a
definite question.
“Knuckleduster?” repeated Jack echoing the
name. “Why, yes. He's about. I saw him to-
night—not half an hour ago.”
“Ah,” Wade fingered his drink, outwardly
with only perfunctory interest in the conversa-
tion, inwardly with tense watchfulness. “I was
wondering what had happened to him. Where
did you see him?”
“He was 'aving dinner with a baby doll up
at Duller's in Piccadilly. We didn’t speak. He
seemed to be enjoying himself and I didn’t want
to interfere.”
“That so? Glad he's managing to keep out
of worse mischief,” said Wade. “Well, I must
be off, Jack. Early to bed and early to rise,


SUSPECTED 155
“It's all right, Knuckleduster,” said Wade,
quietly dropping into a seat facing him. “I’m
not a ghost.”
There was a tinkle of glass as Knuckledus-
ter's hand dropped heavily on the table. Yet he
turned fierce fighting eyes on the detective. “I
don’t know you,” he said defiantly. “Who in
blazes are you, and what do you mean buttin’ in
on us like this?”
“Sock 'im in the jaw,” advised his inamo-
rata considerately.
“You’ve got a short memory, Knuckle-
duster,” said Wade quietly. “My name's
Wade. I’m a police officer. If the lady will be
kind enough to leave us for a little while, I want
to talk over some business with you. I’ve just
come from Twyford,” he added meaningly.
Knuckleduster’s manner changed. “Oh, all
right, Mr. Wade. Take no notice of Gwennie.
She's liable to get excited. I'll just see her
off the premises and then we'll have that
talk.”
“Sit right down,” advised Wade quietly,
but with a note of command in his voice.
“Gwennie can find her own way out, I believe.
You'll have to excuse us, my dear. This is all
going to be very private.”
“Right. Beat it, Gwen,” ordered Knuckle-
duster, and settled himself defiantly in his
chair.
The girl looked from one man to the other,


156 SUSPECTED
and then, with a shrug of her shoulders and a
shrill laugh, left them. Wade waited until she
was out of earshot.
“I’m afraid I’ve got to take you in, Knuckle-
duster,” he said.
“What for?” The other was brusque. “You
ain’t got nothing on me, an’ you know it.”
“I don’t know what you call nothing,” said
Wade, “but if a little thing like beating up a
police officer with a sandbag is nothing, you’re
on. I’ve got the goods on you, laddie, and it’s
no good putting up a squeal.”
“You’re a liar,” said Knuckleduster
bluntly. “I ain’t been near Twyford to-day
and I can prove it.”
“How did you know this assault took place
at Twyford?” retorted Wade. “Don’t be a
condemned fool! Why, I can easily identify
you—you and Eston and Velvet Fred. You're
for it good and proper this time.”
“I’ll wait till you prove it,” declared the
other. He was the type of criminal that always
believed the other man was bluffing until it came
to a show-down.
“That may not be necessary,” said Wade.
“We’ve got it on you, and you were a sucker to
come out to-night. If you’re a sensible man,
though, it won’t need to go much farther. I’d
hate to have to jug a man like you. Why can’t
we talk this over as between pals—you and I
and the guv'nor?”


SUSPECTED 157
“Come across,” said Knuckleduster sus-
piciously, “I don’t take you.”
Wade looked him squarely in the eyes. “Oh
yes, you do,” he answered firmly.
“You’re asking me to squeal on Eston.”
“I’m asking you to save your own skin.
You’re up against it, Knuckleduster, and you
know it. Are you going with the rest of 'em or
are you going to take a chance and give us a
straight griffin?”
Knuckleduster's jaw set hard and he met
Wade’s eyes with a gaze as straight as his
own. “Let’s get this without any camouflage,”
he said. “If I cough up all I know, you'll let me
make a clean get-away?”
Wade hesitated. It is a ticklish business get-
ting a statement from a man implicated in a
crime. The law is a jealous taskmaster.
“That all depends,” he parried. “We might
pass over this affair at Twyford if—if there's
nothing else. The man isn’t very seriously
hurt.”
“You gotta give me a clean sheet,” persisted
Knuckleduster.
“Not on your life,” said Wade. “You can
talk or you can keep your trap shut, which you
like. If you do the last, you’ll take what’s com-
ing to you. What about it?”
‘‘Nope!” declared Knuckleduster and shut
his jaws tight.
“Well,” said Wade smoothly, no trace of


158 SUSPECTED
the chagrin he felt in his face, “I think we’d bet-
ter be taking a walk along, Knuckleduster.”
Arm in arm, like two intimate friends en-
gaged in intimate conversation, the two men
walked through the crowded dining-rooms and
out of the restaurant.


CHAPTER XVIII
WHILE Knuckleduster cooled his heels in a cell
at Grape Street police station Wade got busy
on the telephone. His conversation with Gar-
field at Scotland Yard was short and correct.
When he at last laid down the receiver he
winked portentously at Rack, the divisional de-
tective inspector who was standing at his elbow.
Rack scrutinized Wade's brick-red, immobile
face steadily. “What's the game?” he de-
manded.
“Why”—Wade made a slight gesture in the
Open palms of his hands—“I take Knuckle-
duster up to the Yard myself. No other must.
I don’t take a cab or even handcuff him. Some-
where, somehow, while we are walking along to-
gether what happens—?”
“You take your eyes off him,” broke in Rack
smilingly.
“I’ve never lost a prisoner in my service,”
protested Wade solemnly, “but if he should
chance to get away perhaps it wouldn’t be a
black mark against me. It might happen by
luck that we’d have one or two people to fol-
low him up. Knuckleduster will hot-foot it
likely enough to wherever Eston's hang-out
159


160 SUSPECTED
may be. It's all a chance but there are men
keeping an eye on the little lady who brought
him out to-night and we’ll be able to pick him
up again.”
Knuckleduster Jim was surly when the depu-
tation of two detectives accompanied by a jailer
called on him in his cell. He felt that luck had
played him a shabby trick. He was reclining
in his shirt-sleeves on the thick board couch
glumly contemplating his stockinged feet when
the door opened and shut again with a
clang.
“Well, Jim,” said Wade cheerfully. “Been
thinking it over?”
Rnuckleduster’s gaze never shifted from his
feet. He sat glum and silent.
“Come, my man,” said Rack sharply. “Pull
yourself together. We want to help you all we
can.”
The prisoner gave a short, rasping laugh.
“Say—I know all about that,” he sneered.
Rack laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I
hate to see a man go down because he’s been
played for a sucker by someone else. You’ve
been let in for this. I guess that man you
dropped across down at Twyford is pretty bad.
Suppose you go down for attempted murder?
Don’t you hold out too much hopes on Eston,
my lad. He may be in the pen himself to-mor-
row. Where will you be then? Better cough
up and give us a hand.”


162 SUSPECTED
ridor, Wade's hand encircling the prisoner’s
wrist.
As they walked into the big bare charge-
room Jim remembered something. “We com-
ing back here?” he demanded.
“Sure thing,” said Wade. “Why?”
“Only there's that stuff they took off me. I
don’t want to lose that.” -
The usual formality of search had been made
when he had been brought to the charge-room,
but Wade being in a hurry had not followed
the usual custom of making an inventory. Nor
had he confined himself to merely relieving the
prisoner of knife, matches, and other articles
with which he might do injury. He had simply
cleared his pockets and left examination till
later.
“You won’t lose any of it that you are
properly entitled to,” said Wade. To the sta-
tion sergeant in charge of the room he added,
“You might send it along to the Yard if you
don’t mind—I’d like to look it over some time.”
If Knuckleduster had suspected the elaborate
arrangements that had been made in order that
he might once again take the air of freedom, he
might have been grateful. On the other hand,
he might not. As they strolled down Regent
Street towards Trafalgar Square, he was rest-
lessly on the alert. All Wade’s genial ap-
proaches at conversation were wasted on him.
He did not intend to talk—even about the wea-


SUSPECTED 163
ther. One never knew these bulls from Scotland
Yard.
It was in Cockspur Street that chance took
a hand. A stout man, lumbering heavily in pur-
suit of an overloaded bus brushed blindly into
the detective-sergeant. Wade staggered back
and his grip on his prisoner loosened. In an
instant Jim had wrenched himself free, while
the detective measured his length on the pave-
ment.
So far as Knuckleduster was concerned, it
was fortunate that an empty taxi-cab should
glide slowly by at that moment. He pulled
open the door and stood on the running-
board for a second while he addressed the
driver.
“Chancery Lane,” he said, “and rush it.”
Satisfied that his injunction was being obeyed
he slipped inside and flung himself upon the
cushions with a grin. Circumstances had fallen
his way and having a large stock of human
nature, Knuckleduster was inclined to take the
credit to himself. At any rate he had gained
full advantage from them. It was not every
man who could escape from custody in broad
daylight in a frequented street with the daring
and cleanness that he had shown.
His self-congratulation might have been less
undiluted had he known that another taxi-cab
containing four men was rolling along not fifty
yards behind him. Further back still, Wade


164 SUSPECTED
and the fat man who had been the original
cause of the contretemps were walking amicably
together towards Scotland Yard.
“As good as a picture-show,” declared the
fat man. “You’ve missed your vocation, Wade.
You ought to be on the stage.”
“I reckon Knuckleduster is riding away now
and hugging himself at his own cleverness,”
said Wade. “Well, we’ve got several ends to
work on now—things ought to be coming our
way pretty soon.”
Meanwhile as Knuckleduster fondly imag-
ined, he was being carried farther and farther
away from the instruments of justice. The luck
that had sent the cab along just at the precise
psychological moment never occurred to him as
odd. Yet he was no fool. He knew that the
chances were that Wade had had time after
his recovery to take the number of the cab.
In any event, taxi-cabs were always easily
traced.
That was why he had given Chancery Lane as
a direction in which to drive. Chancery Lane
could afford no hint to those who followed up
his trail. Within easy walking distance of that
thoroughfare there were tubes, omnibuses, and
trams to every part of London. It would be
odd if, in the circumstances, he couldn’t make
a clean get-away. Yet he overlooked one fact—
a fact which came as a shock to him when he
realized it. He had no money. Every article


170 SUSPECTED
can bet we’ll come a-running if we’re needed.
But we want to do the business quietly and
neatly, if we can. I hate to make a fuss. You’ll
have to take your chance of Eston. Here's a
card if you need one. It’s always useful to have
a spare card.”
There was no immediate answer to Jimmie’s
ring at the door of No. 15. He stepped in-
side as the door, actuated by some unseen
mechanism, glided open and immediately shut
again as he crossed the threshold. He was in
a dimly lighted hall, shoddily furnished—just
such a hall as one might have expected from the
exterior aspect of the house, save that three or
four yards along, the passage was blocked by
another door. He had an uncanny sense that, al-
though he saw no one, he was being scruti-
nized and in a little the other door opened. A
middle-aged man in well-fitting evening dress
appeared.
“Did you want anyone, sir?” he demanded.
“Well,” drawled Jimmie with well-assumed
nonchalance, carrying out the instructions he
had received from the people bagged by Gar-
field, “they do tell me that Mr. Smith lives
here—Mr. Jones sent me.” He presented the
card Garfield had given him and the other took
it between the tips of his fingers.
“Ah, yes. Captain Iles. Delighted to see
you, captain. Won’t you come in? It’s a little
early yet, and we haven’t many people here


174 SUSPECTED
A small flight of stairs led upwards and Jimmie
followed them.
A woman passing along the corridor caught a
glimpse of him, gave a gasp and came to a halt.
“Jimmiel Jimmie l’” she whispered.
Regardless of the need for caution, he sprang
up the remaining stairs three at a time with
outstretched arms. All he knew was that
Hilary Sloane was waiting for him.
Before he reached her, however, he recoiled.
A blue-tinted barrel was behind the girl and
behind that the lean, sardonic face of Eston.
“Good-evening, Mr. Silverdale,” he said. “I
told you we should meet again.”


176 SUSPECTED
“Still playing lead for the pictures. For an in-
telligent man, Eston, you make me tired. You
know as well as I do that you daren’t murder
me. It isn’t done, old boy. Put down that
howitzer and take things reasonably. In about
an hour's time, when you’re sitting comfortably
in a nice, cool cell and are able to think things
over, you will realize that this is good advice.
You're hooked, old bean.”
There was a sneer on Eston’s face. “All
very humorous, I’ve no doubt,” he said. “I’ve
never been a funny man myself and I’m not at
all alarmed, thank you. I know that Knuckle-
duster didn’t make a get-away to-night through
his own brains. It was a frame-up, as I guessed.
I’ve been expecting you and your friends for
some considerable time.” • *
“Well, I'm here,” said Silverdale coolly.
“Yes, you’re here. I think you’ll stop here,
too. I’ve made arrangements for just such a
contingency. I'm afraid the Daily Wire will
soon be missing one live, very alert, reporter.
You see—”
Hilary suddenly gave a cry and sprang for-
ward. “Look out, Jimmie l’’
She was too late. From behind, two men had
stealthily approached while the journalist was
being held in conversation and, taken from be-
hind, he stood not a dog’s chance. In a few
seconds he was lying prone, a heavy knee
pressed into the small of his back and strong
º


SUSPECTED 177
arms wrenching his wrists back till they could
be lashed behind him.
At the same moment, Hilary had tried to
spring past Eston to Jimmie's aid. The crook
over-balanced and half fell but recovered him-
self. He seized the girl roughly by the wrists
and hurled her backwards.
“You keep out of this, my lady,” he ordered.
She picked herself up as the men jerked Jim-
mie to his feet. The journalist was very white.
“You—Eston!” he snarled. “I’ll find a way to
get even with you for this!”
Eston knew that it was not his own predica-
ment that had transformed Silverdale’s jaunty
nonchalance to white-hot passion, and an un-
pleasant smile passed across his features.
“The dear lad,” he smirked repeating Silver-
dale’s words. “He is a chivalrous boy. He
doesn’t like to see the pretty dear knocked
about. Don't you worry, Silverdale. Hilary
and I understand one another. If I’ve hurt her,
a kiss will put it right.” He stepped back,
placed his arm round the girl’s waist, and bent
his evil face to hers. “Won't it, Hilary?”
Tied though he was, it took the united
strength of his two assailants to hold Jimmie
Silverdale back then. Hilary, however, fought
herself free and, with surprising vigor, crashed
her fist full in Eston’s face. He loosed her with
an ugly oath and she fled along the corridor.
Eston wiped his face with a silk handkerchief


178 SUSPECTED
and shrugged his shoulders. He seemed to have
regained control of himself.
“A bit of a spitfire, Silverdale,” he observed,
“but I like 'em with a little spice. Now we’ll
have to deal with you. I'm afraid I cannot offer
you that nice, cool cell which you kindly spoke
about to me just now. But we’ll try the next
best thing—a little attic that we have fortu-
nately got available as a spare room. I think
perhaps that it might be advisable if you were
gagged. I don’t want to seem hard, but we
never know what may happen.”
Someone whipped a handkerchief over Jim-
mie's mouth and then with an escort on each
side he was urged along. Eston led the way to
what Jimmie judged was the top-most floor of
the house and he was pushed into a tiny, bare,
windowless room with, as he noticed almost
automatically, a strong, heavy oaken door.
“I guess you will wait for your friends here,”
said Eston mildly—‘‘that is, if they ever come.
Just take a turn round his ankles, Jim, if you
don’t mind. We’ll be on the safe side.”
Lashed hand and foot, Jimmie heard the door
closed, and the thrusting of the bolts and a
clash as the key turned, told him that Eston
was taking no chances.
To Jimmie Silverdale, tied hand and foot in
that garret, things became curiously quiet.
His ears strained to catch the slightest sound,
he could hear nothing. Either the house was
-


SUSPECTED 179
very substantially built or the people in it had
become very noiseless.
Apart from the physical discomfort of his
bonds, and the hard floor, the journalist was
little worried. It could only be a matter of min-
utes at the longest before Garfield moved. If
only he could have smoked a cigarette, he could
possess his soul in patience. It was no use
worrying over spilt milk.
Time passed very slowly. He wished he
could look at his watch. The floor became in-
tolerably hard and he rolled over on his other
side for a rest. His wrists and his ankles were
sore and he had more than once felt a twinge of
cramp. Something must have gone wrong—
yet what could have gone wrong? Why had not
the police carried out their raid? It must have
been an hour—no, more likely two hours—since
he had got into this place. He concentrated
on an attempt to free his wrists. But there had
been no mistake when they had been secured.
The only result was an increased rawness of the
skin. -
Then he caught a slight sound and his eyes
lighted. Muffled steps were ascending the
stairs. Jimmie waited alert. -
Bolts clicked back into place and, with the
turning of the key, Eston slipped quietly into
the room. He wore a hat and overcoat and
seemed cool and smiling. He carried a candle.
“Well, Silverdale,” he said, “I seem to


SUSPECTED 181
ceases to interest you at all. You're right up
against it.”
“Really, this sounds interesting. You’re go-
ing to murder me.”
“Oh, dear, no! Nothing nearly so crude as
that. You must give me some credit for a little
ingenuity, my dear Silverdale. It may happen
that, in a little while your friends outside—
whom I have provided with occupation for a
time—will take it into their heads to raid this
place. As a fact, they’ll have to break the door
down to do it, and meanwhile there is enough
petrol and enough matches in the place to make
quite a considerable blaze. In the confusion, it
is not unlikely that you will be overlooked. I’m
afraid you are liable to get somewhat—ah—
Scorched, unless you listen to reason.”
“Don’t bluff.”
Eston lifted his shoulders. “I was afraid
you might think that. Therefore—I am going
to tell you a few things—things that I’d only
tell to a trusted ally—or a man who will be
dead in a few hours.”
The picture of scornful incredulity out-
wardly, Silverdale gave an inward shudder. He
knew enough of Eston to realize that he was a
man utterly without scruple, especially when
pushed into a corner. Trapped and surrounded
as he was, it was likely that he would go to
any lengths to gain a chance. He believed that
Eston was speaking the truth when he said he


SUSPECTED 183
through in patience. You are aware, of course,
that the lady is not Miss Hilary Sloane at all.
That she is a widow?”
A flicker of surprise passed across Jimmie's
face to be instantly suppressed. He remem-
bered his conversation with Garfield. He was
determined to let Eston go as far as he would.
“I have known Miss Sloane some consider-
able time,” he said. “I suppose it’s waste of
breath calling you a liar?”
“Ah, you are a little astonished. There is
no reason why I should lie to you. I want your
help and I am treating you quite frankly. The
lady was secretly married some years ago in
America, and she is the widow of our late la-
mented friend Harold Saxon. More than
that—” he stretched out a hand eagerly—“she
is his heiress. Oh, you may laugh, but I assure
you that I have my facts all straight. I have
even a copy of the marriage certificate and I
know that Saxon left the whole of his property
to his wife.” -
“That latter point,” said Jimmie, “explains
why Velvet committed a burglary at Saxon’s
flat a few days before the murder took place.”
“Draw what inferences you like,” said Es-
ton. “I am just telling you. Saxon’s fortune,
Imay say, amounts to several millions—a stake
worth playing for. I’m no piker. If you come
in on this, you’re a made man.”
Silverdale puckered his brow, as one who con-


184 SUSPECTED
sidered a proposition. “If all this is true,” he
said, “and not a fantastic nightmare, where do
I come in? I can see something of what you’re
after, but I don’t see where I fit into the scheme.
You're not making me this offer out of sheer
altruism, I suppose?”
“Scarcely,” said Eston dryly. “Listen. I
have had this in mind for a year or more, ever
since I learned that Saxon had made a secret
marriage. First of all I had to find out where
the girl was and chance helped me there since
she was living with a lady who was under some
obligation to me.”
“Nora Dring?”
“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is
that I found her. I don’t want to wear any halo
with you and I’ll admit if you like that I have
made rather a specialty of using my knowl-
edge of little family secrets now and again.”
“Don’t trouble about the gloss,” said Sil-
verdale. “Use the word “blackmail.” It’s
Shorter.”
“As you like. I saw further than black-
mail, though. Blackmail meant at the best a
few thousands now and again. As I said be-
fore, I’m no piker. I believe in big business.
If Saxon died, his widow would get his money.
I took precautions to be sure of that. My idea
was that I might marry the lady and so get my
fingers on things. I believe I might have car-
ried out that part of the program, had there not


SUSPECTED 185
been complications—in other words yourself.”
“You flatter me. As I understand it, what
you intended to do was to kill Saxon and marry
his widow?”
“If I had killed Saxon,” said Eston, “I
shouldn’t have made the mistake of making it
an obvious murder. That was clumsily done.
Otherwise you have summed up the situation.
I took advantage of things. If you had been
less in Hilary's mind, it might have come off,
or I might do what I shall do if you refuse my
terms now and make her marry me whatever
her feelings in the matter. Now, here is my
offer. You want to marry her; she wants to
marry you. I want to finger some of Saxon’s
money. You will take a million and I will take
the rest.”
“And what about the police?”
A sneer passed across Eston’s face. “Oh,
the police You and I ought to be able to fix
things so far as they are concerned. I’m not
worried about that. They suspect Hilary of the
murder but we’ll be able to arrange an alibi.”
“They don’t suspect Hilary, as you know
quite well. For one thing, she could never in-
herit Saxon’s fortune if she had killed him.”
“Well?” Eston shrugged his shoulders.
“It doesn’t matter whom they suspect. I’ll give
you my word that we’ll be all right. Now, time
is getting short. I’ve put my proposition up to
you, what do you think of it?”


186 SUSPECTED
Silverdale struggled to a sitting position. “I
think you have made a mistake. I’ll see you in
the deepest corner of the infernal regions be-
fore I agree to anything you put up. Go away.”
“You’re a little overstrained. Just consider
it sanely for a moment. I offer you a million
pounds more than you are fighting for. You
only want the girl. Why refuse? You'll have
nothing on your conscience. Look here, Silver-
dale, I'm in love with Hilary myself. On my
soul, I shall be almost glad if you refuse.”
Silverdale rolled over so that his back was
towards the other and remained contemptuously
silent.
“You’ve had your chance,” said Eston.
“I’ll be damned if I’ll waste more time with
you!”
The door closed behind him.


SUSPECTED 189
was emerging from an open second-floor win-
dow. Garfield ripped out a swear word. He
realized instantly that Eston had frustrated
him again. Criminals of that type will fight
against heavy odds but they do not willingly die
in the last ditch. If Eston had fired the house,
he had done so not to die in its ashes but to
cover his retreat.
One of the detectives without waiting for or-
ders was already running full pelt down the
road towards a fire alarm. Another had climbed
the railings and clinging like a fly to what in
similar houses in the neighborhood would have
been the dining-room window, protected his
hand with a cap and smashing a pane, inserted
his arm and pulled back the fastening. A wave
of thick, black smoke gushed out and, choking
and gasping, he leapt clear.
“Smoke bombs,” observed one of the other
IſleIl.
Garfield slipped his arm through that of the
divisional detective inspector and pulled him
back into the street.
“You take charge here,” he said. “I’ve got
half an idea and I’m going to chance it.”
It had been a matter of seconds since the
alarm was given, but already the street, which
had seemed asleep up to now, save for the de-
tectives, was waking up. Heads were appear-
ing at windows and half-dressed figures at open
doors.


190 SUSPECTED
Garfield accosted a pajama-clad man two
doors away. “Who’s the owner or agent for
this property?” he demanded, and as the man
gave him the information he desired, he capped
his question by another. “Where’s the nearest
telephone?” He accepted it as an interposition
of Providence that there was one in that very
house and expressing a word of thanks, he was
soon feverishly turning over the leaves of a tele-
phone directory.
Meanwhile, Jimmie Silverdale lay wondering
what was going to happen. Since Eston had
left him for the second time, the silence that
had bothered him before had not been quite so
obvious. There were muffled noises which he
could not always interpret. Presently a smell
of burning came to him.
Jimmie Sliverdale was a brave man but a
shiver shook him from head to foot. Eston
was carrying out his threat, then.
It is given to few people to face the slow ap-
proach of inevitable and painful death with
stoicism. Jimmie was no stoic. He wrenched
frenziedly at his bonds until his heart felt that
it would burst but still the bonds held. By
some inadvertence Eston had omitted to replace
the gag and Jimmie raised his voice in loud,
but what he instinctively knew, must be futile
cries. If he could only have met his fate fight-
ing, he would have been happier. But to die
like this—roasted to death—appalled him. For


192 SUSPECTED
“Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie! If you don’t pull
yourself together, what shall I do?”
He sat up, shakily. The room was full of
swirling wreaths of heavy smoke. Dimly in
the darkness, he made out a figure, gaunt and
spectral, with something round its head that
gave it a singularly weird and fantastic effect.
The figure was kneeling near him with one arm
round his shoulders. He sensed, rather than
recognized, her identity.
“Hilary!” he gasped.
“Yes, it is Hilary. Can you stand, Jimmie?
Here—let me wind this round your head.” She
twisted something round his face so that the
intolerable smoke pangs were minimized.
“Now, don’t talk. Try to stand.”
Hilary Sloane was a good type of the modern
athletic girl. She did not believe that femininity
implied weakness and she had need of all her
strength now, for Jimmie was as weak as a kit-
ten. Half-supporting, half-carrying him, she
groped her way towards the door. At the
stairs, he stumbled and only a superhuman ef-
fort on her part saved them both from disaster.
Smoke was rolling up from below in thick, oily
wreaths, with weird effects, as in the far dis-
tance little flashes of blue and yellow flame ap-
peared.
Staggering, choking, gasping, they descended
the stairs, a feat only to be achieved with in-
finite slowness. As they neared the ground-


SUSPECTED 195
only a shadowy notion of what had happened
since he had lain in that garret, waiting for
death.
“It occurs to me, Hilary,” he said, “that you
have saved my life.”
She smoothed his face with her free hand.
“Don’t be silly, Jimmie,” she said.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “I’d be a pretty
cheap sort of a corpse just now if it hadn’t
been for you. I'm afraid my legs are a bit
wobbly yet, so if you don’t mind we’ll wait a bit
before we begin to explore this private tunnel
of Mr. Eston’s. Meanwhile, you might tell me
how it all happened.”
She laughed—a merry, musical, happy laugh,
that echoed strangely among their dismal sur-
roundings. “You got my note?” she asked.
“The note you left on the house-boat—sure!”
“And you don’t think that I murdered Sir
Harold Saxon now?”
He lifted the hand that was clasped in his
own to his lips. “That's your answer,” he
said. “Now, how did you get away from
Eston?”
“Oh, there was nothing in that. He knew a
great deal and guessed more after you and he
met on the stairs. He told us—Nora and my-
self—that the place was surrounded and that
we had a back way out through which he pro-
posed to take us if the police tried to force an
entrance. “A private emergency exit’—he de-


SUSPECTED 197
me that they had used a combination of smoke-
bombs and petrol. The smoke was meant to
hold back the police till the place got well alight
and so prevent them from discovering our re-
treat too soon. I tore my skirt off and bound
a piece of it round my face. So at last I found
you.”
‘‘I know men who have won the W.C. for
less,” said Silverdale. “Now our immediate
problem seems to be where are we and how do
we get out? Eston seems to have wriggled out
of his difficulties once again. Have you any
matches?”
“I have got one left,” said the girl.
“And I have none. Well, I should save yours
in case we want it, Meanwhile, we’ll grope our
way along and see what happens.”
He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and, arm in
arm, they began to grope their way along the
tunnel.


CHAPTER XXII
BIG business in crime as big business in ordi-
nary commercial pursuits takes account of con-
tingencies. Eston, when he became proprietor
of a gambling hell, took account of the risks
as well as the profits. It was to minimize these
risks that he had had a tunnel constructed at
an outlay which many people might have looked
upon as prohibitive, but which he regarded as
an insurance.
Although the possibility that he might find
use for it personally may have been in his mind,
it is doubtful if that was a prime reason. There
are many people who frequent gambling houses
who would hate the publicity of a police court.
It was their convenience rather than his own
that Eston had in mind when he provided this
other unobtrusive exit.
The emergency which had now arisen, how-
ever, had thrown the question of preserving the
“good-will” of his clients into the shade. In
fact, Eston had flung them, as well as the perma-
nent staff of the place, into the street, as part of
the policy to occupy the police till he was ready.
His chief concern was to get away whole to
carry out his own greater plans.
When Hilary rushed back into the burning
198


200 SUSPECTED
playing the Jonathan to her David stunt—not to
any extent since I’ve known you. Why, girl—”
he halted as though seized by a sudden inspira-
tion, disengaged her arm and held her with his
torch blazing full on her face—“if I’m not
away out in my guess, you’ll not be sorry
that she's gone. You little devil—you’re
glad!”
Eston was not squeamish. He had done cruel
things in his fight against society and he was
brutally reckless of everything, even human life,
when he had an end to achieve. He had left
Jimmie Silverdale to a painful death without a
pang of remorse, but there was a light in the
girl’s green eyes which stirred even in him a
feeling of revulsion. She was shivering be-
neath the grip of his hand but there was a cold
Smile on her face.
“Perhaps—I’m not so sorry as I might have
been,” she confessed. “I liked Hilary—she was
useful to me in the old days. But she became a
prig—and I can’t stand prigs.”
He jerked his thumb backwards and regarded
her cynically. “So you don’t mind much that
we’ve left her behind—there. By God! I hate
to think of it—and you smile!”
“You see, you were in love with her—or
thought you were,” she countered. “No, I
didn’t come back because of Hilary. I came be-
cause of you.”
“Of me?” Eston took no trouble to conceal


SUSPECTED 201
his sneering surprise. “I didn’t know you were
interested in me to that extent.”
She sprang forward suddenly and threw her
arms around his neck. She was kissing him
hotly, passionately, clinging convulsively to him
in an ecstasy of passion. Eston pushed her
brutally away. -
“Ugh !” he gasped contemptuously, “you’re
mad!”
“It was you,” she insisted, speaking with a
fierce intensity as she faced him. “Why have I
been helping you all this while, blindly, unhesi-
tatingly? If you hadn’t been taken up so with
Hilary, you would have seen. I’m the woman
for you. I'm glad she's gone—glad, glad,
glad l’” She stamped her foot. “I have helped
you but I tell you this—you would never have
married her. I’d have killed you both first!”
“You would, eh?” he said quietly. “I’m
almost inclined to believe you, my dear. Now,
if you don’t mind, we’ll discuss the question at
Some more suitable time. Just now, the main
idea seems to me to get away from here. You’ll
feel better when we reach the fresh air.”
“Don’t address me as if you were speaking to
a child,” she snapped. “I’m a woman and I’m
not to be played with.” Her tone changed and
she sank on her knees in front of him, gripping
his hand tightly. “Oh, my dear, my dear! Say
that we shall—”
Eston cut her short. Even if he had had the


SUSPECTED 203
foot on the ladder, extinguished his torch and
listened. He could hear nothing.
Indeed, it may have been the extraordinary
quietness of the house above that confirmed his
latent suspicion. It was impossible that this
means of retreat could have been guessed and
yet—and yet! >
He thrust a hand out behind him and whis-
peréd a warning to the girl. “H'st!”
Still the silence hung about them, oppressive,
impenetrable as the darkness itself. Then
someone sneezed. In an instant, Eston was
back at the mouth of the tunnel, an automatic
in his hand, the beam from his torch concen-
trated steadily on the trapdoor ladder. He
raised his voice. “Is that you, Jim?” and the
trapdoor swung back.
“Come right on, guv'nor,” said a husky
voice. “It’s all quiet.”
.The hand that held the electric torch shook a
little. Eston’s senses were too keyed up for him
to make a mistake. At another moment he
might have taken that voice for Jim's—but not
now. He knew that, somehow, in spite of all his
foresight, he had been outwitted. He was
trapped.
The realization of all it might mean swept
across him in a flood. Not only had he lost the
game—the big game for millions that he had
been playing—but he had overreached himself.
Whatever their suspicions in the Saxon busi-


204 SUSPECTED
mess, they could prove little—certainly not, he
told himself, that he had had any finger in the
event that led to the murder of that eminent
munitioneer. {
This, however, was different. There was
Jimmie Silverdale, for instance. He was known
to be in the gambling house when it had been
fired and there would be remains. No legal
adroitness, no slice of luck could possibly save
him from conviction on that charge of murder,
once he fell into the hands of the police. He
had blundered, execrably, horribly. He had
played and lost.
Nora Dring crept close to him. “What is
it?” she whispered.
He kept his eyes steadily on the shaft of light
that flickered on the ladder and would outline
the first figure to descend. “It’s the gentlemen
from Scotland Yard, if I don’t miss my guess,”
he said. “We’re in for it, my dear.”
She glanced apprehensively towards the trap-
door. Then before he could guess her purpose,
she had raised her voice. “Is Mr. Garfield
there? It’s Nora Dring speaking.”
“Keep quiet, you!” ordered Eston sharply.
Then he shrugged his shoulders. The situation,
from his point of view, was as bad as it could be.
There was nothing the girl could do that would
worsen it. He raised his voice. “Don’t trou-
ble to answer, Garfield. You’re a darned poor
ninnie, and I’ve had you taped this last minute.


206 SUSPECTED
can sit on that trapdoor till it's red-hot and
you can’t find me walking into your arms.”
He heard the striking of a match as Garfield
lit his pipe. The inspector had learned more
than he needed to know when he had placed his
head inside the trapdoor. He was disposed to
take things comfortably. “That’s all right,
then,” he said amiably. “We’ve got all the
time there is and we’re ready to wait. You’d
find yourself much more comfortable in our
hands—but suit yourself. If Miss Dring likes
to come up, we’ll make her welcome. Is Miss
Sloane there?”
“She is not,” answered Eston, and composed
himself to his vigil.
“Well, what does Miss Dring say?”
Nora Dring, her face white, her knees trem-
bling, collapsed in a heap at Eston’s feet. “I’ll
stay with Mr. Eston,” she declared shakily.


CHAPTER XXIII
MR. JosLAH GARFIELD smoked steadily and
philosophically as he sat in a chair by the side
of the open trapdoor. Two other men were
with him, also smoking, and tied hand and foot
in a remote corner of the kitchen lay Velvet
Fred and Knuckleduster Jim. As the chief
inspector had remarked, he had all the time
there was and if the business was to resolve
itself into a game of patience, he did not greatly
mind.
Of what had happened at the burning gam-
bling hell he had not the slightest idea. He was
bent single-mindedly on securing Eston and he
was very happy.
Some day, he reflected, he would tell of this
exploit. There were angles of it that made him
realize that he was a great man. It was a flash
of genius that had made him think that a man of
Eston's caliber would not fire the place unless
he had some secret and certain method of es-
cape. He had argued that men who had made
a life-profession of crime, as Eston had, do not
commit suicide and he had proved himself right
in this case, at least.
207


208 SUSPECTED
From that proposition, the idea of a tunnel
had followed logically and there was only one
reasonable probability—that it had its exit at
some other house in the vicinity. So the detec-
tive had played his hunch. An inquiry of the
estate agent had revealed the fact that a “Mr.
H. Smith.” had taken another house on agree-
ment in a street fifty yards back at the same
time that he had taken the place in Cello Street.
And now Garfield was sitting by a trapdoor
with Eston underneath and two or three men
connected with the case actually in his hands.
Yes, he felt very pleased.
His thoughts reverted to Silverdale. He had
great belief that that young man would land
right side up on his feet whatever happened,
and yet he felt some uneasiness. It was curious
that nothing had been seen or heard of him
since he had entered the place. And Hilary
Sloane. Why was she not down there with Es-
ton? It might be that the crook was lying, but
it was all mightily curious.
The entrance of Wade and two or three more
men disturbed his reflections. The sergeant, his
evening dress torn, his face smoke-grimed and
dirty, his some-time snowy shirt-front black-
ened and soiled, glanced with a grin at the two
men in the corner.
“I was told you were here, sir,” he reported.
“Yes, I'm here,” agreed Garfield. “How's
it going? Any news of Silverdale?”


SUSPECTED 209
Wade shook his head gloomily. “The place
is gutted,” he said. “If he is in it, I’m afraid
it's all up with him.”
- “H'm.” Garfield took his pipe from his
mouth. “That’s a pity. I rather liked the lad.
I’d hate to think that he’d gone under like
that. However—” He lifted his massive
shoulders.
Wade’s gaze wandered to the open trapdoor
and he lifted his eyebrows interrogatively.
“Yes, Eston is down there. He’s got a gun
and he made some uncommonly good practice
when I tried to get a glint at him.” He touched.
his injured ear, on which a slight clot of blood
showed, tenderly. “He’s not feeling very ami-
able just now is Mr. Eston.” He raised his
voice. “Are you there, Eston? What have
you done with Silverdale?” º
There was a chuckling laugh from below.
“Ask me?” retorted Eston sarcastically.
“He’s out of the game.”
The two detectives looked at each other and
Garfield frowned. Both were sorry, but it was
all in the day’s work. Wade stooped to glance
down the open trapdoor, but Garfield stopped
him with a touch. “I wouldn’t do that,” he
warned. -
The sergeant heaved himself up and spat
through the opening. “What are we going to
do about that swine?” he said. “We’re not go-
ing to leave him there to laugh at us. I’m will-


210 SUSPECTED
ing to chance it and go down and pull him out
if you give the word.”
Eston, to whom every word of the conversa-
tion was audible, laughed loudly.
“Come along!” he taunted.
The chief inspector shook his head. “No
need to be in a hurry,” he said. “We’ve got
him safe enough. We put up a sweet little am-
bush, Wade. I’m sorry you weren’t here to
enjoy it. Jim and Fred there just walked into
our arms. They were in such a hurry that they
didn’t know what had happened till it was all
over. Here—” he addressed one of the detec-
tives who were listening—“you slip down and
get a taxi and then a couple of you can get ’em
to Grape Street. Might as well get ’em cleared
Out of here.”
The man addressed gave a jerk of the head to
signify that he comprehended the order and
vanished. Wade leaned over close to his chief
and muttered something in a low voice.
The chief inspector listened thoughtfully.
“There’s a girl down there,” he observed.
“We might try to get her up.” He raised his
voice. “Miss Dring,” he called.
“Yes.” The answer floated up clearly but
there was a slight tremor in the voice.
“I want to ask you to come up here and sur-
render yourself. You will be treated with every
consideration, but if you refuse I can’t answer
for what may happen. I strongly advise you to


212 SUSPECTED
There was just the chance that the girl might
take the one way of escape that lay open to
her. Garfield did not want a dead woman on
his hands—he wanted a live prisoner.
Leaving the watching of the trapdoor to
others, he and Wade retired to another room
where they could lay their plans in privacy.
Here they were joined by Rack, the divisional
detective inspector from Grape Street, and the
divisional detective inspector in charge of the
Bloomsbury district. -
It took a matter of rather less than five min-
utes to complete their very simple arrange-
ments and they returned to the kitchen. Four
big men, they walked very quietly and in silence
grouped themselves round the opening of the
trapdoor. Garfield stooped and suddenly
swung his big body clear, gripping the edge of
the opening and leaping clear of the ladder
down into the cellar. -
He swerved sideways as he landed in the
darkness and flashed on an electric torch. He
carried an automatic in his pocket but he had
the ingrained reluctance of the London police
to use a lethal weapon even in self-defense
and even as Eston opened a reckless fusillade,
he did not draw it. -
One by one as in a game of follow-my-leader,
his companions leapt through the opening, each
flashing their torches in Eston’s face. Dazzled
and blinded, he fired wildly in their general di-


214 SUSPECTED
They passed the girl back while bullets splin-
tered on the brickwork around them. Wade
had put the situation in a nutshell. It seemed
hopeless to carry out the attempt at arrest any
further. Eston had realized the strength of his
position, and thoroughly reckless and desperate,
was determined that nothing should dislodge
him.
Very reluctantly Garfield stretched himself
full length on the greasy floor of the tunnel and
leveled his own weapon.


216 SUSPECTED
pushed the girl behind him. Again revolver
shots broke out and he crouched forward, some-
what in the attitude of a runner prepared for
a start. Eston, backing slowly, was close at
hand, and the journalist heard Garfield's voice
as Nora Dring was hit. The detective’s torch
gave him a glimpse of figures farther up the
tunnel. Then the torch went out and he
jumped.
Any warning to the detectives must have also
warned Eston. Silverdale knew and accepted
the risk. As he leapt he heard a bullet shatter
on the wall behind.
“Don’t shoot—it's I–Silverdale!” he yelled.
His hands encountered something yielding
and a numbing blow took him in the shoulder.
The journalist’s full strength had not yet come
back to him and he reeled. It was Eston’s op-
portunity but he never repeated the blow. All
the demoniac fury of the past few minutes had
left him and he cowered away with an inarticu-
late guttural sound.
Garfield, who had reached a conclusion with
the first sound of Silverdale's voice, was on his
feet in an instant. One of his assistants was
behind him and switched on his torch. By its
light they saw Silverdale and Eston swaying to
and fro, the journalist shaking the other as a
terrier shakes a rat. Eston had dropped his
pistol and was offering no resistance. The
chief inspector’s hand descended on the crook’s


220 SUSPECTED
where he had left it when he had leapt through
the trapdoor.
“The pity of it all from your point of view,
Eston,” he observed, “is that you never real-
ized you were off the rails. You laid your plans
on a wrong foundation.” -
The crook eyed the inspector up and down
suspiciously. “What are you trying to draw
out of me now, I wonder,” said he.
Garfield shook his head guilelessly. “Noth-
ing,” he replied. “I’ve got all I want against
you. I shall be able to prove enough when you
go up for trial. I shall prove that you had Miss
Dring under your influence and that it was
through her that you came into association with
Miss Hilary Sloane, whom you believed to be
the wife of the man now dead. I can prove the
movements of Knuckleduster Jim, Miss Dring,
and yourself up to within an hour of the time
the murder was committed. I can prove that
the person who killed Sir Harold Saxon left you
with that deliberate purpose.”
Eston knew that he was being keenly watched.
He realized that Garfield would not be wasting
time in discussing the affair unless he had some
purpose. The crook had been trained in a cau-
tious school and was well on his guard. His
face was impassive while Garfield made his
indictment.
“Bluff!” he commented scornfully. “Sheer
bluff.”


SUSPECTED 221
Garfield ignored the interruption. “I shall
prove all this,” he resumed, “but as I remarked
just now, you went to a deal of trouble on a
mistaken conception. You imagined you had
identified Lady Saxon.”
One of the detectives pulled forward a hard
wooden chair and passed it to Eston. He sat
down nonchalantly and crossed his legs. Two
deep thoughtful lines appeared on his forehead
and he watched Garfield intently.
“Why waste time?” he asked coldly. “This
is a beautiful fairy-tale, isn’t it?”
“Harold Saxon married a woman who called
herself Hilary Sloane in America,” went on the
inspector. “The knowledge was a useful asset
to a man in your profession, of course—par-
ticularly as Saxon was not living with his wife
here. That was the assumption you acted on
and it was a false one. Did it never occur to
you, Eston, that the lady who married Saxon
might not have used her own name for the cere-
mony—that in fact it was not Miss Sloane who
was the bride?”
The point to which he had been leading up
went home. There was no doubt about that.
Eston leaned forward eagerly, forgetful that he
was being watched, and his lean face was set in
a scowl.
“What's that you say?” he demanded. “She
is not Lady Saxon?” He pointed a slim finger
at Hilary.


CHAPTER XXV
Journalism is an exacting taskmaster. Worn
as Silverdale was, reluctant as he was to leave
Hilary, his first duty was to the newspaper that
employed him. He held in his hands the biggest
newspaper story of years and though the actual
raid and the burning of the house in Cello
Street had already brought down the battalions
of Fleet Street, there was nothing that they
could have gained that would in any way take
the gloss off his big story.
So it was that leaving Hilary with Gar-
field, who promised that she should be
carefully looked after, he hurried to Fleet
Street.
It was late and the early editions of the paper
had already been dispatched, but a number
of the night staff, including the chief sub-editor
to the news-editor, were still on duty. They
welcomed the sunken-eyed Silverdale boister-
ously.
“You’ve been left standing this time, Jimmie.
While you’ve been hunting will-o'-the-wisps,
there’s been a big stunt up in Bloomsbury—a
great yarn and arrests wholesale. We’ve given
it four columns.”
º
224


SUSPECTED 225
Jimmie searched his pocket for the makings
of a cigarette and rolled it languidly. “I
know,” he said. “I was there.”
The news-editor had had a wearing night and
his temper was a little jagged. “You were
there,” he repeated. “Then why the policemen
didn’t you let us hear from you? See here, Sil-
verdale, you may think you’re the big noise on
this sheet, but you’ve got no right to hold things
up till the paper's gone to press. Why didn’t
you 'phone—”
Silverdale held up a deprecating hand.
“Don’t fly off the handle, old bean. I didn’t
get in touch with you because I couldn’t. You
see I was inside that house when they set fire
to it and couldn't very well—”
The news-editor gripped him by the shoul-
ders, all his anger gone. He looked into the
reporter’s weary, humorous eyes and then
swung away swiftly to the 'phone. “Tell Mack-
shott there's a big story coming,” he ordered.
“We’ll run a special edition.” He dashed
down the receiver and turned again to Jimmie.
“There won’t be time for you to write it,”
he declared. “You must dictate. Half a mo-
ment.” - -
His quick eye had appreciated that Silverdale
was on the verge of utter exhaustion. He gave
swift orders to a boy who, galvanized into activ-
ity, slipped over to the Paper Club for brandy
and coffee. Thus stimulated, Jimmie began his


226 SUSPECTED
big story—the biggest story, outside the war, of
his career.
Every person in the building who could write
shorthand was pressed into service, for minutes
gained meant pounds saved in special trains.
Watch in hand, the news-editor touched each
man on the shoulder at the end of two minutes
and the writer almost without pause would take
up the work of transcription while another fol-
lowed Silverdale’s dictation. The chief sub
snatched the slips as they were finished,
numbered them consecutively and corrected
slight errors and jammed them into pneu-
matic tubes to be shot up to the composing
I’OOIn.
Silverdale had often noticed that a state of
acute physical exhaustion re-acted as a stimu-
lant on his mind. He formulated his phrases
and the sequence of his story clearly, and as he
came the fight in the tunnel, he knew he was,
in the words of Fleet Street, “getting there.”
The news-editor’s eyes glistened and he licked
his lips appreciatively. Here was a big story
told in a big way. Yet Jimmie had not unduly
stressed those parts of the episode of which he
did not wish the public to have too close an
appreciation. Only where he himself was con-
cerned did he let himself go large. That had
to be done. He was a part of the paper. Jim-
mie Silverdale would have preferred to shine a
little less conspicuously. As the representative


228 SUSPECTED
<
paper. Sprawled right across the main page
was a big headline.
THE SIEGE OF CELLO STREET
The Daily Wire Unmasks Great Murder
Conspiracy
WHo KILLED HAROLD SAxon 7
Eacclusive Story of Battle with Revolvers in
Underground Tunnel Beneath Burning
Gambling Hell.—Vivid Story of Daily Wire
Representative Who Was Imprisoned by
Prisoner.
SEVERAL ARRESTS
(By JAMES SILVERDALE-Our Special Correspondent)
Jimmie Smiled happily. This was the sort of
thing that made life worth living.
An hour later he found Garfield at Scotland
Yard. The chief detective inspector admitted
to two hours’ sleep in an armchair and con-
fessed to Jimmie that he felt a trifle wearied.
Yes, he had had Miss Sloane escorted safely
home and everything was looking promis-
Ing.
“Just for to-day, we’re going to charge Es-
n with attempting to murder you,” he said.
“There’ll only be formal evidence of arrest and
.* *
--


SUSPECTED 239
Dring was an old acquaintance, it simplified
matters from his point of view. He was able
the more completely to influence her.
“Now as I have said, Knuckleduster was not
the sort of man to shrink from the part for
which Eston had cast him. Mind you, I think
he would, at that time, have hesitated at
murder. On the other hand, Nora Dring could
not be trusted to effectively dispose of an able-
bodied man like Harold Saxon if he was at lib-
erty to defend himself. '
“So, first of all, Eston has the flat burgled by
Velvet—for papers, mark you. Obviously he
wanted a marriage certificate. Then he lured
away the housekeeper with a bogus message
and let Knuckleduster loose with instructions
that he was to tie up Saxon and leave him. He
gave Jim to understand at that time that it was
a question of blackmail and that in case things
went wrong, he wished to have Saxon helpless
after an interview he proposed to have with the
aéroplane manufacturer.
“As a matter of fact, of course he never in-
tended to go near the flat. He got in touch with
the Dring woman and the affair came off as he
had planned. Once the murder was committed,
neither Knuckleduster nor Velvet could fail to
appreciate that Eston had been playing an even
deeper game than they had realized. But by
that time they were involved—particularly Jim.
Eston explained to him that the murder was


SUSPECTED 245
“If you’ve made up your mind about it, why
trouble me?” he asked.
“Every inquiry we have made,” went on
Garfield, “fails to substantiate anything you
say, except that it is clear that you were not
present at the actual murder of Sir Harold
Saxon. It is only right you should know that
Rnuckleduster and Velvet have told their
stories.”
“Really?” Eston's voice was icy. “I don’t
quite see how that can concern me. I have told
the truth.”
“You have nothing further to add—nothing
to explain?”
The crook shook his head doggedly.
“I have been quite frank.”
“Then we’ll finish this farce,” said Garfield
sternly.
Eston, a constable at each elbow, found him-
self heading a procession down the narrow
stairs into a lofty, bare charge-room. In the
center of the room stood a solitary tall desk,
against which leaned a meditative uniformed
inspector, a pen behind his ear. He straight-
ened up briskly as the little group entered, and
became busy with an official form.
Eston was led near the little iron dock that
forms part of the fittings of every London
charge-room, and is never used, and waited.
Garfield strolled over to the uniformed in-
spector, and spoke in a low voice, while the


248 SUSPECTED
series of dastardly, abominable lies! Curse
you, Garfield !”
“That will be all,” said the station-inspector,
without emotion. “Take him below.”
. Unresisting, Eston allowed himself to be es-
corted back to his cell.


CHAPTER XXIX
IN no phase of life is the shortness of the public
memory more evident than in the newspaper
profession. Within six months the names of
! many of those who figured in the blaze of pub-
licity that made the Saxon murder case a theme
of vivid interest to the man in the street had
faded almost out of memory.
There were other and more immediate things
to occupy the public mind. And yet for three
long months the case had dragged over the cor-
oner’s court, the police-court, to the Central
Criminal Court at the Old Bailey. Eston him-
self was always certain of a niche of infamy in
the minds of a certain section of the public;
but, then, Eston was hanged. Beyond that, the
details of the case were obscured to most
people.
It may be that this shortness of public mem-
ory is a deliberate device on the part of Provi-
dence for the benefit of those innocent people
who must be concerned in every great case.
Neither Garfield nor his colleagues had any ob-
jection to publicity once the matter had reached
the court. -
Jimmie Silverdale, however, came to hate the
sight of his name in a descriptive report,

249


SUSPECTED 251
slipped away to join Hilary, the solemn, deep-
throated warning of the usher preceding the
sentence of death coming faintly to him:
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!”
After that, it was a matter of small moment
that Knuckleduster Jim had been sentenced to
fifteen years’ penal servitude, and Velvet Fred
to five. The thing was over. Some of the
papers had short homilies in their leader
columns next day which were not read, and
many columns descriptive of the closing scenes
of the trial, which were widely read. There-
after the big story was over. It had burnt
out.
There remains only one more episode. At a
little church in an unfashionable locality, some
three months later, the news-editor of the Daily
Wire, resplendent in morning-coat and silk hat,
waited on the steps with quiet amusement,
while the hatchet-faced young man with him
fidgeted with his watch. -
“I hope nothing has happened,” said Jimmie
Silverdale impatiently.
His friend grinned unfeelingly.
“The lady’s due in, perhaps, ten minutes, my
lad. Keep calm, like a good newspaperman.
You're behaving like a bridegroom out of the
comic papers!”
“I feel like one,” agreed Jimmie. “You’re


252 SUSEPECTED
sure you have got that ring all right?” “Sure.
. . . Here they come !”
A motor slid to a standstill. Chief-Detective
Inspector Garfield, huge and smiling, offered
his hand to the bride, and the news-editor
hustled Jimmie into the church, lest the eti-
quette of these affairs should be violated.
So the ceremony proceeded. Not until they
were at breakfast in the hotel, where a quiet
reception had been arranged, did the news-
editor speak his mind.
“Jimmie Silverdale,” he said, in a speech he
had prepared for the toast of the bride and
groom, “has been the best newspaperman I
have known in a long experience. Let me warn
you, Mrs. Silverdale, that one of two things
must happen. If he continues to be a good
newspaperman, he will be a bad husband, and
if he becomes a good husband, he will be a bad
newspaperman.” -
Hilary clung to her husband’s arm.
“I’ll take the risk,” she said.
TELE END