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THE MYSTERY OF LYNNE COURT





THE MYSTERY OF
LYNNE COURT
By
J. S. FLETCHER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
LEE THAYER
BALTIMORE
THE NORMAN, REMINGTON COMPANY
1923


Copyright, 1923, by
THE Norman. REM INGTON CO.
Published September, 1923
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THE MYSTERY OF LYNNE COURT
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INTRODUCTION
At this late date, Mr. Fletcher hardly needs an
introduction to any English speaking country. Here,
in America, we already have many of his entertain-
ing mystery stories, of which, perhaps, this volume
is the best.
His stories of English rural life are not so well
known to us, but are well worth reading. Their
charm of description and character study is not
lacking in his mystery stories, which will always be
found to have much to recommend them besides their
thrills and intricacies.
To those of us who love to read (and write) these
tales of plot and counterplot, there is no greater
pleasure than to find one which not only “keeps us
on our toes” from start to finish, but one which is
written in clear, good English, vitalizing both narra-
tive and description.
With this modest tribute of one fellow-craftsman
to another, I make my bow, and present for your
delectation, ladies and gentlemen—
MR. J. S. FLETCHER
in
THE MYSTERY OF LYNNE COURT.
LEE THAYER.
Chatham, New Jersey,
July 23, 1923.





CONTENTS
CºAPTER
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
THE Two O'clock CALL . . . . .
THE DEVIL INCARNATE .
SPLENDID MISERY
Who Is KESTEVEN ? . .
THE GREEK GENTLEMEN .
MR. SMITH of PUMP Court .
THE EARLY MoRNING TELEGRAMs
PLAIN MURDER - -
THE SHAVING Pot . . . .
A LADY COMES: A LADY Goes
THE CABBACE PLANTER
MEN OF MYSTERY .
The ANNoTATED CHART
CoLD FEAR . . . .
THE WAKEFUL FootMAN .
DEDUCTION BY METHOD
Miss Brock .
The SEA-CAPTAIN -
HALF A BIRD IN THE HAND .
THE WREATH AND THE CHARM
THE MIDDAY SPECIAL .
CoNCERNING Miss Brock .
SMITH REPORTS PROGRESS .
MRS. RENToN's Story .
THE Convenient CABLE .
STYLER LEARNS THINGs . . . . . .
THE ESMONDHAUch PEDIGREE . . . . . .
THE GREEKS INTERVENE . . . . . . .
The Café Noir . . . . . . . . . .
THE LIGHTED WINDow . . . . . . . .
THE KNock AT THE Door . . . . .
THE INNER Room .
THE UNRAVELLINc . . . .
PAGE
11
21
31
41
50
60
70
80
89
98
108
118
128
137
146
155
164
173
182
192
201
210
219
228
237
246
256
265
274
283
292
301
311


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CHAPTER I
THE Two o'clock CALL
For once in a way something had gone wrong with
Hextall's latch-key—or with the latch into which he
was endeavoring to insert it. A young man of in-
finite and practised patience, he spent five minutes
in trying to make things right; it was already two
o'clock in the morning and he had no wish to ring
the bell and wake his household. And as he stood
there on the steps of his house, occasionally glancing
right and left along the lights and shadows of Wim-
pole Street, it struck him as a queer thing that this
should happen on the first night out that he had al-
lowed himself for the past six months. Some folk
might say that inability to fit a key into a latch was
a not unusual result of a night out, but no one who
knew Hextall would have connected this difficulty
with his amusements. His relaxation, in fact, had
taken the form of a visit to the annual dinner of a
learned society to which he belonged; that over, he
had gone home for a pipe and a chat with an old
fellow-student, and had sat up discussing a certain
new theory until the small hours. He was now very
tired, and very sleepy, and he felt inclined to curse
the patentee of that particular latch—an American
affair which had only recently been fitted to the door.
When a neighbouring church clock struck two he gave


12 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
the attempts up and rang the bell, and at that moment
a man came running, panting, round the corner.
Hextall's was a corner house, and at the corner
itself stood a gas-lamp. In its yellow light Hextall
looked curiously at the man who ran and panted.
He was a big man, in evening dress; his face was
very large, and very fat, and at that instant it shone
white, as if from fear or emotion. The man wore
no hat; on his high, bald forehead Hextall saw great
beads of perspiration gathering and rolling. Un-
consciously, the runner lifted a plump hand and
wiped them away, muttering to himself as he did so.
Then he suddenly caught sight of Hextall, half hidden
in the shadow of his door, and he pulled up with a
quick, shaking jerk of his body. He glanced sharply
at Hextall's tall figure, gave an equally quick glance
at the house, and approached. And Hextall, who had
a trick of shrewd observation, set him down as a
butler or confidential valet; the signs of it were writ-
ten all over his big, flabby face.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” gasped the man. “Are
you a doctor?”
“I am,” answered Hextall.
“Can you come with me, sir?—close by. I—I was
running for a doctor. At once, if you please, sir!”
“Were you going for any particular doctor?—have
you a doctor whom you usually call in?” asked
Hextall.
“No, sir—never had occasion before now,” replied
the man. “Glad if you’d come back with me, sir, at


THE TWO O'CLOCK CALL 13
once. It's just round the corner—one of the new
flats in Queen Anne Street—Mr. Tress's, sir.”
“I’m coming—as soon as my servants open the
door,” said Hextall, quietly. “In the meantime,
what’s the matter?”
The man glanced nervously up and down the de-
serted street, as if he feared to even whisper to its
lights and shadows. He wiped his forehead again
as he drew nearer to the young doctor.
“Accident, sir—shooting—revolver went off,” he
replied, in low tones. “And—and it’s a lady.”
“A lady?” replied Hextall.
“Mr. Tress's sister, sir. A young lady.”
The door opened just then, and Hextall motioned
the man to follow him inside. He went straight
along the hall to his surgery, turned on a light, and,
picking up a bag which was kept ready in case of
emergencies, opened it, and glanced at its contents.
The messenger stood watching him and getting his
breath. -
“Where is this young lady wounded?” asked Hex-
tall, mechanically.
“I—I think it's in the shoulder, sir—I’m not sure.
There or in her arm, sir, anyway,” answered the man.
“I wasn’t present, of course.”
“Who’s with her?” demanded Hextall.
“There's her brother, Mr. Tress, sir,” replied the
other, a little confusedly. “And—and some other
gentleman.”
“No woman?”
“No woman, sir.”


14 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
Hextall picked up the bag, into which he had
placed some extra necessities.
“Oh, well!—we can get a nurse within five min-
utes,” he said. “Come along, then.”
The man followed him out of the house with a
sigh of obvious relief, and once in the quiet street
again wiped his forehead.
“Upset me, sir,” he said, apologetically. “A
shock, sir!”
“You’d better tell me how it came about,” re-
marked Hextall. “I dare say you're pretty well
aware that you can tell a medical man anything.”
“I don’t know how it came about, sir,” answered
the man. “All I know is—it did come about. I
haven't been long with Mr. Tress—a few months—
and I don't know much about them. You see, he's
a very rich young gentleman, with a fine place in
Survey—Lynne Court—and a couple of months since
he took and furnished this flat. He-well, the truth
is, he's gone the pace a bit, sir. And to-night, his
sister, Miss Paquita 99
“Paquita?” said Hextall, involuntarily.
“They're half foreigners, sir” said the man.
“Half Spanish, I think. She came up from Lynne
Court last evening, and said she was going to stop.
I don’t think Mr. Tress half liked it, but he took her
out to dinner and to the theatre, and when they came
back, two or three of his friends dropped in—as they
often do, late at night. Miss Paquita, she went to
bed—half-past twelve that was: I had to stop up, of
course. And I was dozing, just before two o'clock,


THE TWO O'CLOCK CALL 15
in my pantry, when I heard a shot. Then Mr.
Kesteven—that's Mr. Tress's great friend, sir, came
to me, and said there'd been an accident, and Miss
Tress had shot herself, and sent me for a doctor.”
“Shot herself, eh?” said Hextall.
“So he said, sir—but not dangerously. Here we
are, sir.”
He had led Hextall round the corner to a block of
newly-erected flats, and he now hurried him past a
night-porter, with a meaning look at that functionary,
and up one flight of stairs to a door at which he
paused for a moment. He gave his companion an
informing glance.
“They're all a bit—you know, sir,” he said.
“The gentleman, I mean—they’d all been taking a
fair lot. Except Mr. Kesteven. He's never like that.
But this may have sobered them.”
Hextall nodded silently, and followed his guide
into a dimly-lighted, richly-furnished entrance hall,
in the oak panelling of which several doors were set.
The man threw one of them, at that moment a little
ajar, wide open, and the doctor stepped into a blaze
of light and upon a scene which at any other time
would have impressed him by its semi-theatrical at.
mosphere. Indeed, if a curtain had been suddenly
rolled up before his eyes to reveal what he saw, he
would have said that this was a scene set for the stage.
Except, that is, for one difference—his keen, pro-
fessional eye immediately caught sight of red blood
trinkling over warm, white flesh.


16 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
He stood for a second staring at what he confront-
ed: behind him, his guide muttered low words of con-
sternation. Between them and the rest of the room,
a finely proportioned, handsomely decorated and
furnished apartment, half lighted by the glow of
tinted lamps, stood a girl, who gripped the side of a
tall cabinet with one hand, and in the other held a
revolver in an unpleasantly threatening fashion.
She was apparently eighteen or twenty years of
age, very beautiful in a dazzling, un-English fashion,
and at that moment very striking because of her
pallor, which was accentuated by her dark hair, piled
in heavy masses about a graceful head. Somewhat
above the middle height, slender and lithe of figure,
she was in evening dress, and it was from the bare
arm which gripped the cabinet that the red blood was
trickling. As Hextall entered she flashed a quick
glance upon him from a pair of dark eyes just then
blazing with anger; it swept him over in a second, and
darted back to four men who sat or stood on the
other side of the room, behind a green-covered table
on which lay certain cards and implements which
showed that somebody had suddenly interrupted the
playing of a well-known game of chance.
Hextall's quick eyes followed the girl's. Imme-
diately before her, standing by the card-table, watch-
ing her every movement, stood a tall, clean-shaven,
keen-faced man, alert, ready, whose attention visibly
relaxed as Hextall entered. He was a man of good
looks, obviously astute and clever, and as he was just
as obviously sober, and in very full possession of his


THE TWO O'CLOCK CALL 17
wits, Hextall took him to be the Mr. Kesteven of whom
the valet had spoken. His eye travelled past him to
the hearth, where a younger man, whom from the re-
semblance between them Hextall at once set down as
the girl's brother, sat sprawling in an easychair, his
legs thrust stiffly out before him, his hands plunged
deeply in his trousers pockets. His chin was sunk
on his breast; his mouth gaped a little; his eyes,
heavy and dull, were fixed on the girl as if the
muddled brain behind them was endeavouring to real-
ize and comprehend what was taking place. A half-
burned cigar lay on the rug at this young man's feet;
on his broad, shining shirt-front there were wine
stains. And in the silence which hung all over the
room he suddenly closed his eyes and began to
SI101°C.
There were two other occupants of the room—
youngish men in evening dress who stood in the back-
ground, close together, whispering. Hextall set them
down at once as foreigners, though he was uncertain
of their nationality. One was evidently expostulating
or persuading; the other was as obviously listening
with an ill grace. He was a dark-skinned, sinister-
eyed fellow this, and he glared over his shoulder at
the girl as if he were labouring under some injury.
And Hextall realized that it was this man whom the
girl was chiefly watching.
All this was seen by the doctor and the valet
within a second of their entering the room. Hextall
sized up the situation in a glance. Without hesita-


18 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
tion he walked straight to the girl and held out his
hand.
“Give me that revolver, and then let me see your
wound,” he said, peremptorily.
Paquita Tress stared at this sudden cold-voiced
command. For an instant she looked Hextall up and
down; then a frown of annoyance settled between her
eyebrows, and she shifted her position a little.
“Not until those men hand back the money they
have got out of my brother!” she answered deter-
minedly. “That man across there, particularly—
he's a cheat!”
The tall man leaning against the table turned his
head and said something in a murmer to the man
who was scowling in the rear. Then he stepped for-
ward, smiling a little.
“There has been a slight—slight contretemps,” he
said, deprecatingly, as he nodded to Hextall. “Miss
Tress got the idea that unfair play was taking place
between her brother and his guests, and she interfered,
I am sorry to say, with threats of violence. For her
own sake, I endeavored to take her revolver from her,
and in the struggle it went off, and I'm afraid she
has a wound.”
“And the revolver, too,” said the girl, with a de-
fiant laugh. “And I’ll keep my word! Don't pay any
attention to him,” she went on, turning for the instant
to Hextall, and indicating the tall man with a con-
temptuous sneer; “he's as bad as the others—worse!
That man behind there doesn't go out of here until he
puts that money back on the table—I watched him.


THE TWO O'CLOCK CALL 19
If any of you—any!—dare to touch me again, I'll
shoot you dead!”
The tall man looked at the doctor, smiled, and
shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned away and
moved a step or two towards the men in the back-
ground, and Hextall once more approached the girl.
“You had much better take my advice,” he said,
quietly. “You are doing no good, and your wound
may be more serious than you think.”
“I know all about my wound,” she retorted. “I’ve
got a bullet in my shoulder, if you want to know.
But what I’ve said, I’ve said, and I shall do what I
threatened if Look there!” she suddenly burst
out, pointing to the figure in the arm-chair. “Do you
think he was fit to play? They've cheated him—all
of them!”
The tall man came back, followed by the others—
the sinister-eyed one in an evident temper.
“Miss Tress exaggerates,” said the tall man, calmly.
“There has been no cheating. But for the sake of
peace and quietness this gentleman will put down on
the table what he won from Mr. Tress. We others
won nothing—we lost. Hand it over and let us be
done with this,” he went on, turning to the angry man.
“Be quick!”
The man addressed growled and scowled, but he
suddenly dived a hand into his pocket, drew it out
full of notes and gold, flung them on the table and
turned to the door with a muttered curse. His com-
panion followed him; in silence the valet crossed the


CHAPTER II
THE DEVIL INCARNATE
NEARLY two hours later, Hextall, followed by a fellow
medical man whose services he had requisitioned,
emerged from the bedroom in which he had left his
patient in charge of two professional nurses, sum-
moned from a neighbouring home, and turned into
the apartment to which the valet had conducted him
on his arrival. It now looked vastly different. The
tinted lamps no longer cast a pink and violet glow
over its appointments; the windows were set wide
open, and the first gleam of the spring daybreak was
mingling with a welcome breath of fresh, morning
air. The green card-table and its suggestive furnish-
ings were gone; gone, too, was a certain plentiful
array of bottles and decanters which had stood on a
sideboard; the whole room appeared to have been
cleansed and sweetened of all signs of riotousness, and
now looked highly respectable and sober. And at a
little table in one of the windows, shaved, bathed,
scrupulously groomed, a smart tweed suit on his well-
set up figure, a fresh flower in his buttonhole, sat Mr.
Kesteven, munching a roll and sipping fragrant
coffee. Whatever orgy might have been in process
earlier that morning, it was evident to the two doctors
that this clear-eyed, steady-handed, alert gentleman
had taken no other than a spectator's part in it.


22 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
Kesteven, who was reading a newspaper of the pre-
vious evening, jumped up from his easy-chair at sight
of the doctors and came forward with the calmness
and assurance of a man who was very much at home.
He nodded with a mixture of politeness and familiar-
ity which did not particularly recommend itself to
Hextall.
“Well, doctor?” he said. “I hope you have left
your patient all right? Not a really serious wound,
I gather?”
“The injury is not serious,” answered Hextall.
“But Miss Tress must be kept perfectly quiet until she
can be moved home.”
“Oh!” said Kesteven, off-handedly. “She’ll be
quiet enough here. The two nurses, of course, will
take entire charge of her.”
se must be kept quiet at night,” observed Hex-
tall.
“Of course! You're thinking of-what you saw this
morning,” said Kesteven, with a smile. “Pity that
Miss Tress got so excited about what was really noth-
ing. Her brother was not being cheated—I would
have stopped that. Dash of South American blood,
you know, doctor!—hot, impulsive, excitable.”
“From what I saw of him,” remarked Hextall,
dryly, “Mr. Tress was not in a condition to—”
“To prevent himself being fleeced, eh?” broke in
Kesteven, with a smile that was not far off being a
sneer. “All right—all right!—but he'd only just
crumpled up when you came—he was quite capable
of taking care of himself until then. And I was


THE DEVIL INCARNATE 23
there—and I only drink at meals, and not very much
then. Miss Tress laboured under a mistaken im-
pression—and it was her own fault that she got her
wound. If I had not tried to take that revolver from
her you’d have been fetched to a dead man instead of
to a slightly wounded woman.”
Hextall made no answer. He was uncertain of
Kesteven's status in the place. But Kesteven speedily
solved his doubts on that subject.
“I’m sharing this flat with Tress, at present,” he
went on. “You can rely on me to see that Miss Tress
is kept perfectly quiet until she can go down to Lynne
Court. Now, how soon will that be?”
“In a few days—if all goes on properly,” replied
Hextall. “Absolute quiet is the necessary thing.”
“This flat shall be kept quiet as a woodland cot-
tage,” said Kesteven. “In fact, the patient and her
nurses shall have it all to themselves. I’ll cart Tress
off for a few days. Rely on me. Now, let me offer
you some coffee?”
Hextall declined and went away with his colleague.
In the hall outside they met the valet, who looked at
Hextall with a mute question.
“There is nothing very seriously wrong,” said
Hextall. “Miss Tress will do very well if she is
kept quiet. I have impressed that upon Mr.
Kesteven, and he has promised to see to it. I under-
stand that he shares this flat with Mr. Tress.”
The valet made a grimance. He glanced at the
door of the room in which the doctors had left
Kesteven over his coffee.


24 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Shares!” he muttered. “Yes—he might put it
that way!”
“He guarantees quiet, at any rate,” said Hextall.
“Can that be depended upon?”
“I’ve no doubt things will be quiet enough, sir,
until Miss Tress goes down to Lynne Court,” answered
the valet. “Last night would frighten some of them a
bit—it’ll be talked about amongst them.”
“The nurses will stop,” continued Hextall. “Is
there any one who could come to Miss Tress—any
sisters?”
The valet shook his head.
“There's nobody, sir, that I know of but the three
of 'em,” he answered, in a low voice, again glancing
at the closed door behind which sat Kesteven. “Mr.
Tress, his sister, and a little brother. I don't think
they've any relatives in England—never heard of or
seen anybody.” y
“Well, keep things quiet,” said Hextall. “I shall
call later in the morning.”
“An air of queerness about that,” he remarked to
his companion when the valet had left them out and
they were walking towards Wimpole Street together.
“What did you think of the coffee-drinking gentle-
man?” -
“Cool customer,” answered the other. “Unusu-
ally cool!”
“How would you reckon him up?” asked Hextall.
“I wouldn't reckon him up until I saw young
Tress. What's he like? The sister is a beauty.”
…'
º
*
n
y
s
º


THE DEVIL INCARNATE 25
.
“The boy's like the sister—but weak where she's
strong. Handsome lad—in his half-Spanish way.
From the glimpse I had of him I should say he was
in danger of drinking himself to death.”
“Where did he get to, then, during this business?”
asked Hextall's companion, who had gained an ink-
ling of affairs at intervals, and was excusably inquis-
itive. “Bed, eh?”
“His man took him in charge,” answered Hextall,
grimly. “I shall be sure to see him—later.”
Darrell Tress was standing by the breakfast-table
when Hextall returned to the flat at seven o’clock.
He was as scrupulously groomed as Kesteven himself,
but his lips were trembling and his hand shaky; there
was a plain odour of old brandy in the room, and he
looked at the doctor with sheepish and furtive glances.
“I say, I’m awfully sorry about this—this beastly
affair,” he blurted out, as Hextall entered, and after
a slight bow, stood regarding him silently. “Awful
mistake my sister—doing what she did, you know.
She-of course, if I'd known she had that revol-
Ver 92
“I am not concerned about what has happened,”
said Hextall. “My duty lies in seeing that nothing
comes of it. Your sister will have to be kept quiet
for several days.”
“Oh, that's all right!” answered the lad with evi-
dent relief. “We’ll see that nothing disturbs her.
Kesteven and I are going away for a week—of course,
the nurses will stop with her?”


26 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
Hextall, who was drawing off his gloves, looked
attentively at his patient's brother. His professional
eye saw sure and certain signs of recent incessant dis-
sipation—but he also saw that Darrell Tress was quite
sufficiently himself to hear a little plain truth; he also
saw sufficient indications of latent good sense in him
to know that he would hear straightforward speaking
from a man not very much his senior.
“That means that you leave your sister in the sole
care and charge of strangers,” he said dryly.
Darrell flushed under his dark skin.
“I—the fact is, we don't know anybody,” he an-
swered. “We’ve only been in England a few months,
and 99
“Has your sister no women friends?” asked Hex- .
tall.
“I'm afraid not,” replied Darrell.
“Then, said Hextall, “I should suggest that you
should give up your own friends for a few days and
devote yourself to seeing that your sister is properly
attended to. I'll take care of her in a professional
way, but neither doctors nor nurses are relatives, you
know, and 99
Kesteven broke in upon them, entering from a side
door with a Bradshaw in his hand. He nodded calm-
ly to Hextall, and turned to Tress.
“The one-twenty-five's a good train,” he said.
“Suppose we–”
Darrell Tress looked at Hextall.
*


THE DEVIL INCARNATE 27
“The doctor thinks I ought to stay and look after
Paquita,” he said. “I—I suppose I ought. I
don't think I’ll go, Kesteven. You go.”
Hextall caught a momentary flash of Kesteven's
eye. He recognized its meaning—it showed as
plainly as a look could that Kesteven was not the man
to brook interference. But it was gone as swiftly as
it came—and Kesteven turned a bland, understanding
accommodating countenance on him.
“Oh, of course, if Dr. Hextall thinks that!” he
said. “Of course—certainly! But I understood
that absolute quiet was necessary, so I thought we
should be best out of the way. Of course, if you
wish to stay with your sister 99
Hextall went off to his patient. And here was no
invalid, dependent and submissive, but a self-asser-
tive, strongwilled young woman, who answered ques-
tions about herself with impatience, and insisted on
having replies to her own.
“I’m not going to be kept lying here,” she said.
“All for a mere scratch of a thing like this! It's
ridiculous!”
One of the nurses, an elderly woman, smiled
shyly at the doctor.
“Miss Tress wants to get up,” she remarked.
“Not to-day, at any rate,” commanded Hextall,
with a glance at the face turned on him in mutinous
appeal. “You’ll be getting feverish, and then I won't
answer for possible complications. This was more
than a mere scratch, you know. That bullet was
pretty deeply imbedded.”


28 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
Paquita Tress slowly moved her head and looked
Hextall steadily up and down for a full minute.
“Send these women away,” she said with sudden
abruptness. “I want to speak to you—alone.”
The two nurses left the room, and Hextall sat
down by the bedside.
“Yes?” he asked quietly. “Now, what is it?”
“What you can guess, I should think, if you have
the observation I credit you with,” she answered.
“What will make me feverish, what will undo any
good you can do, is anxiety. Just that—do you see?.
What is my brother doing?”
“Your brother is considering, how he can look
after you and keep you quiet.” replied Hextall. “He
was thinking of going away so that you and the nurses
should have this place to yourselves. But I believe
he has changed his mind.”
Paquita looked at him hard and long.
“And—Kesteven?” she said at last.
“The last word I heard Mr. Kesteven say was that
if your brother wished to stay with you, he must stay,
of course,” answered Hextall, who had long since
seen that it was best to be plain with her.
“Oh,” she murmered. Then a sudden flash came
into her eyes. “Kesteven,” she said incisively, “is
another incarnation of the devil!”
“Then he must be fought,” laughed Hextall, good-
humouredly. “Now what is it that you precisely
wish? Far better tell me.”
“Can I see my brother for a few minutes?” she
asked.


THE DEVIL INCARNATE 29
Hextall went back to the sitting-room. And there
he found Kesteven and young Tress, both standing in
similar positions on either side of the breakfast-table.
The positions were those of deep thought—that is to
say, each stood with his hands thrust into the pockets
of his trousers, and stared, with bent head, at the
carpet. It was Kesteven who looked up at the doc-
tor's entrance, and gave him a smile which on the
surface at least was engaging and even frank
“Look here, doctor,” he said. “Let’s be candid.
Tress and I have been talking, and—in short, I think
it might be well if I cleared out for a bit, eh, and left
Tress and his sister together, you know?—after all,
when one's got sickness in one's place—eh?”
Hextall answered the apparently frank look with
one which was genuinely so.
“I certainly think that it would be well if Miss
Tress could be left in absolute quiet for a few days,”
he answered.
“Just so,” agreed Kesteven. “All right—I’m off
within the hour.”
He vanished briskly into an adjoining room, and
Hextall turned to Tress.
“Your sister wishes to see you,” he said. “And,”
he added with a significant look, “I think it will do
her good if you tell her that your friend is going
away, and that you are remaining at home.”
Darrell Tress went off towards his sister's room
with something of a hang-dog look on his handsome
face, and Hextall let himself out of the flat and de-
parted on a round of visits. But a sense of strange


30 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
mystery had got hold of him, and during the rest of
that day he caught himself wondering, more than
once, what Paquita Tress had meant when she said
that Kesteven was another incarnation of the devil.
He was still wondering about it, late that night, over
a quiet pipe, when a sudden commotion arose at his
door. There was a violent ringing of his bell, hur-
ried voices on the threshold, one heard in entreaty
and expostulation, another in high insistence. And
the insistent voice was—Paquita’s!


CHAPTER III
SPLENDID MISERY
HEXTALL jumped from his easy-chair with a growl
of sore vexation. He flung open the door of his room
and looked out into the hall. There, volubly inform-
ing his parlourmaid that she must see Dr. Hextall at
once, stood the patient who ought to have been sound
asleep in bed; behind her hovered the younger of the
two nurses, distressed, tearful, and apparently help-
less. She began to address Hextall as soon as she
saw him.
“It’s not my fault, doctor!” she pleaded, wringing
her hands. “I couldn’t stop her—she would come!”
Paquita turned a pair of star-like eyes and a glow-
ing face on Hextall's stern and disapproving counte-
nance. She smiled in a fashion that would have dis-
armed an ascetic, and made for the open door at
which he stood.
“May I come in?” she demanded eagerly. “It’s
all right—there's no need for all this fuss. I want
to speak to you—I must speak to you! Can't the
nurse sit down somewhere and wait? And don’t be
angry with her—it isn't her fault. No one can
interfere with me if I want to have my own way.”
Hextall silently motioned the nurse to a waiting-
room close by; then he took Paquita by the arm, led
her to the chair he had just left, closed the door on


32 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY”
them, and turning, looked down on her with a stern
disapproval which he made mighty efforts to main-
taln.
“I tell you what it is!” he said, with the quietness
of extreme displeasure; “if you behave like this, you
must be good enough to send for another doctor. It
is no use being angry with the nurse, for you are evi-
dently unmanageable. But you are treating her very
badly, and 29
“I’ll make it up to her,” said Paquita eagerly.
“I’ll give her—anything she likes.”
“Nothing you can give her will make up,” replied
Hextall. “And you are treating me badly, too.
What's the use of my—but what's the use of talking
to you? Are you no more than a child?—to behave
in this foolish, wayward fashion!”
Paquita lifted her face to him wonderingly. Her
cheeks were bright with colour, and her eyes were
dark and liquid and full of light. She was certainly
the loveliest woman Hextall had ever seen, and he
almost forgot everything but that as he stood staring
at her. He had to drag his eyes away and to nerve
himself to maintain a proper professional dignity.
“Childish—childish conduct!” he insisted. “The
sort of conduct I should have expected from a spoilt
child of twelve!”
“I’m not a spoilt child of twelve!” exclaimed
Paquita. “I’m a grown woman with a world full of
trouble. That's why I came to you. I don’t know
a soul in all this great town that I can turn to. But
if you’re so angry with me, I’ll go away.”


SPLENDID MISERY 33
She rose as she spoke, and Hextall, who, like all
young men who have determined to be bachelors, was
remarkably soft at heart, saw her beautiful lips
quiver and a couple of great pearly tears gather in her
eyes. He gently pushed her back into her chair,
drew another to her side, and unconsciously threw a
vast amount of sympathy and protection into his
voice.
“Now!” he said. “What is it? Out with it!
You'll be all the better when it is told.”
Paquita dabbed her eyes with a tiny film of cob-
webby lace and shook her head.
“Darrell has gone!” she said.
“Your brother!” exclaimed Hextall, frowning.
“Why—I thought he was going to stay and look after
you?”
“So he did—for a few hours,” she replied dis-
mally. “I knew it couldn't last. Didn't I tell you
Kesteven was an incarnation of the devil? So he is
—and I knew Darrell wouldn’t rest until—until he
was off to him. I saw how he was fidgeting and
fidgeting to go. And—and in the end he went!
What would you do if you had a brother, whom you
loved very much, and whom you saw going straight
to hell?”
There was something so absolutely simple and
naïve in this question that Hextall could scarcely
forbear a smile. But the girl's simplicity made him
answer very seriously.
“I should move heaven and earth to stop him,” he
answered.


34 LYNNE COURT, SPINNEY
“I’ve moved heaven and earth—and so far it's no
good,” asserted Papuita. “I’ve said more prayers
than I ever said for anything else—I’ve done all I
could on earth, which, perhaps, isn't much. No
good!—up to now. The devil—that’s Kesteven—is
too much for heaven and earth and me all rolled
into a lump!”
“Who is Mr. Kesteven?” asked Hextall. “And
how is it that he exercises this bad influence on your
brother?”
“I’d give everything to know who Kesteven is!” she
exclaimed. “As to the other question—why he's
simply got hold of Darrell, that's all. Just got hold
of him—and he does what he likes with him. And
his influence is bad—bad—bad!”
“Perhaps you’d better tell me how he got hold of
him,” suggested Hextall. He saw that the girl
wanted to talk, must talk, and he judged it best to let
her talk to her heart’s content. It was no business of
his, all this, but he knew that unless she unburdened
her conscience she would fret herself into a fever.
“Did he know Mr. Kesteven before you came to
England?” he asked. “Or is he a recent acquaint-
ance?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” she said with sudden
impetuousness. “That's what I came for—I’d have
burst or something, lying there in that beastly flat,
with Darrell gone, and only that nurse to stare at.
Besides, I knew I could trust you—I had a good look
at you when you came in last night. I think—I think


SPLENDID MISERY 35
you’re the first man—man!—I’ve seen since I came
to England.”
“I sincerely trust not!” said Hextall with a grim
smile. “Let’s hope you’re mistaken. But now tell
me—whatever it is you wish to tell. Because all this
is very irregular, and I don’t want you to talk too
much—you ought to be in bed, and fast asleep.”
“Being in bed with me of late has meant lying
awake all night,” she said. “Thinking and thinking,
you know. Well—but you see, you don’t know any-
thing about us. There are three of us—Darrell, and
myself, and our little brother, Ronald—he's only
seven. We were never in England until about eight
months ago—we came last September. You see, our
father was a ranch owner out in South America—in
the Argentine. He married a Spaniard—that’s why
I am called Paquita; it was my mother's name. She
died when Ronald was about two years old. Then
my father died, three years afterwards, and then
Darrell ran the ranche, though he was only a boy.
And I don’t think things went very well, because we
began to get rather poor—only it isn't so dreadful to
be poor out there as it seems to be here in England.
And then—last year—we became, oh, tremendously
rich! Because Uncle James, whom we had never
seen, died, and left us all his money and the place
we now live in—Lynne Court, in Surrey. So we
came home—and now I wish we’d stopped at our
estancia, however poor we might have been! because
then Darrell wouldn’t have met Kesteven.”


36 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Where did he meet him—and when?” asked
Hextall, forced to put leading questions.
“I don't know where—but it was very soon after
we came. You see, Uncle James, who was a great
merchant in London, left one half of his money and
Lynne Court to Darrell, and the other half in equal
shares between me and Ronald. Darrell used to
come up to London a good deal after we arrived at
Lynne Court, and I suppose he met Kesteven some-
where. Anyway, Kesteven began coming down to
Lynne Court long before last Christmas, and then he
and Darrell were always together, going to race-
meetings, and up to town, and they brought men to
the house whom I loathed—like those you saw last
night—men who drank and gambled, and oh-I can’t
tell you! And then Kesteven persuaded Darrell to
take this flat, so that he would have a place in town—
and you have a good idea, from what you saw, of
what goes on there. And though Kesteven doesn’t
drink himself—I think that shows what a calculating
devil he is!—I’m sure he’s encouraged Darrell in that
way, and I know he gets money from him and stands
bv while other men get it—confederates, I expect.
You understand, don't you? Oh, I’m heartbroken!
I came up last night because I would know what went
on at this wretched flat, and after they thought I’d
gone to bed, I watched them, and I am sure Darrell
was cheated. Cheated!—of course, he's being
cheated every day—he'll be cheated out of every cent
he has!”


SPLENDID MISERY 37
“Look here,” said Hextall. “I think you mustn't
mind if I ask you a few questions. How much
money did your uncle leave your brother?”
“He left Darrell about half a million, and he left
the same amount divided between me and Ronald,”
answered Paquita, calmly and unconcernedly. “But
Darrell also has Lynne Court, which is a fine place—
house, grounds, park, and a big farm.”
“Is your brother absolute master of all this?”
asked Hextall. “I mean—it’s not left in trust for
him?”
“Oh, it's all Darrell's, every penny and every acre,”
she answered. “The lawyers told me that—they said
he could make ducks and drakes of it if he liked.
You see, I went and complained to them about Kest-
eVen.
“Ah! And what did they say?” asked Hextall.
“I don’t think they were nice. They laughed;
they were hard-faced men. They said that as Darrell
was of full age, and as his property was his own,
no one could interfere with him. One of them also
said that there was no need for alarm—Darrell would
settle down. But—he won't.”
Hextall found himself faced by the difficulty which
the men of law had seen. As Darrell Tress was of
man's estate, and absolute master of his money and
his land, nobody could meddle.
“Did you give them your ideas about Kesteven?”
he asked.
“Yes, I did. They laughed again, and said some-
thing about hawks and pigeons which I didn't under-


38 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
stand—how should I have understood, knowing noth-
ing? One of them, who was a bit kinder, said to me
that young men were always a little wild when they
came into money, and advised me to try what he
called moral suasion on my brother. As if I know
what moral suasion is!”
“He meant—you must talk to your brother for his
good,” said Hextall.
“I have talked to him for his good! I have been
sister, mother, grandmother, aunt and cousin to him.
I talked to him to-day—I have begged and prayed of
him to be a good boy, and to give up drinking so
much, and to leave off gambling, and to kick Kesteven
out of the door—and so far, it's no good whatever.
He listens and sometimes he promises, and now and
then he cries, and then Kesteven gets hold of him
with some new devilry, and he goes to the bad again.
You see to-day!—there he is, off again. I knew he
wouldn't stand being mewed up there with a sick
sister and two nurses. He's gone to Kesteven, of
course. Ah!—I wish I’d shot Kesteven six months
ago! I had the chance once—and nobody would
ever have known.”
Hextall, who had been staring at the fire, thinking,
turned on his visitor with a start of surprise.
“Nonsense!” he said, sharply. “You don’t mean
anything of the sort!”
But Paquita’s face was calm and unperturbed, and
she smiled a little.
“Don’t I?” she answered. “Then—I do! Think
what trouble it would have saved me and all of us!


SPLENDID MISERY 39
That man will ruin Darrell, body and soul; therefore
he's neither more or less than a dangerous wild beast
who ought to be destroyed. Out there where I was
brought up, we don’t think as much of human life as
people seem to do here. If I’d shot Kesteven out
there—for the same reasons—I’d have been praised
and congratulated. Here, I suppose,” she continued,
meditatively, “I’d get hanged.”
“You’ll certainly get into trouble if you’re so ready
with a revolver as you seemed to be last night,” said
Hextall. “That won’t do here, you know. We're
civilized in England.” -
Paquita gave him a look from under her long, dark
eyelashes. -
“I’m not a fool,” she said. “I know how much
your boasted civilization amounts to! Why are most
English folk such hypocrites?”
Hextall got up hastily.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Can't you help me?” she said. “I–I thought—
somehow—you could—and would.”
“I will, indeed—if I can!” he answered with
warmth. “But—just how?”
“Can't you do something to get Darrell away from
this man?” she replied. “Or—get him away from
Darrell? I’ve no friends—and I think you’ll be one.
Do help somehow, and I’ll—I’ll do anything you
ask.”
Hextall stared at her—stared until he felt himself
sinking into seas of danger. He recovered his senses
with a jerk.


40 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Then obey me at once by going home, and to bed,
and by strict obedience to your nurses,” he said
smiling. “I’ll help you—all I can. We'll do some-
thing.”
Unconsciously, he held out his hand, to cement the
promise. To his infinite surprise and overwhelming
confusion, Paquita lifted it to her bewitching lips.


CHAPTER IV
who is KESTEVEN2
WHEN Paquita, smiling and obedient, had gone away
with the nurse, to whom she was suddenly as affection-
ate as if they had been sisters, Hextall retreated into
his dining-room and looked at the back of his hand.
It seemed to him that he still felt Paquita’s warm lips
there. He was afraid to meet his own eyes in the
mirror over his mantelpiece. And his hands trembled
as he picked up his favourite pipe and essayed to
light it.
“Good God!” he muttered. “Am I going to have
softening of the brain? And—I’ve promised to help
her! Her!”
He had struck several matches and thrown them
away before he got the pipe thoroughly going, and
when at last the tobacco was burning he became so
abstracted that it was quickly out again. At that he
threw the pipe aside with a muttered imprecation and
went off to bed.
“Paquita,” he mused, as he laid his head on the
pillow. “Paquita is very beautiful—and very
dangerous. It will be well when Paquita returns to
Lynne Court.”
But in the meantime, Paquita was close at hand,
and he had to see her at least twice a day. On his
next visit he found her much more amenable to disci-


42 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
pline and cheerful in spirit; it was very evident that
the midnight conversation with him had wrought a
change in her outlook on life. Evidently of an ingen-
uous and impulsive nature, she lost no time in letting
him see that she hailed him as a friend, and Hextall
realized that he was being expected to make good his
promise in true and knightly fashion.
“But we must move warily,” he said, not wishing
her to anticipate too much. “You don’t know where
these two are, do you?”
“Oh, yes, I do!” she answered. “Fowler—that's
Darrell's man—told me this morning. It turns out
that Kesteven telephoned to Darrell last evening from
Brighton, and Darrell made an excuse to Fowler and
set off there at once, leaving Fowler in charge. Of
course he said it was business, and he’d be back as
quickly as possible, but I know what it means.
They’ll stay there as long as they’re amused, and then
they’ll go to Lynne Court, and when I return I shall
find the house full of the usual set. Never mind!
I’m sure you’ll help me.”
Hextall left her, feeling that he had promised
more than he could easily perform. To attempt the
reformation and reclamation of a young man of the
Darrell Tress type was a stiff thing, and at present
he saw no way in which to set about it. He was
inclined, being a good deal of a utilitarian, to take
the view of the lawyers to whom Paquita had ap-
pealed, and from whom she had got such scant sym-
pathy. There was nothing novel nor striking about
the case—it was merely the familiar instance of the


WHO IS KESTEVEN2 43
rich young man falling amongst thieves, with no
power of detecting their intentions, and no great
desire to protect himself. In all these cases there
were two possible developments—Darrell Tress might
suddenly sicken of his surfeit of questionable pleas-
ures, pull himself up, and reform, or he might go
under before anybody could work a reformation in
him. But Hextall knew enough of life to feel
assured that, in any case, Kesteven, if he was the
hawk that circumstances seemed to suggest, would do
a good deal towards plucking his pigeon before it
escaped him.
As he was leaving the flat that morning Fowler,
the valet, met him in the hall, and looked meaningly
at him.
“You want to speak to me?” asked Hextall, inter-
preting the look into a desire for conversation.
“A word or two, if you please, sir,” said Fowler.
He led the way into a small sitting-room, evidently
sacred to himself, and closed the door. “It’s about
what we saw that night, sir,” he continued. “I
thought I’d better mention it, because as you’re
attending Miss Tress, you won’t want her disturbed.”
“Well?” said Hextall.
“You saw that man who put the money back on the
table, sir?” asked Fowler. “The dark-faced fellow
with the bit of pointed moustache?”
“I saw him.”
“He was here last night. I had a nice job to get
him away. He wanted Mr. Kesteven. It was just


44 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
after Mr. Tress went off. I—I'm afraid there may
be trouble with that man, sir.”
“How?” asked Hextall.
“He said that Mr. Kesteven persuaded him to hand
over that money—which he swears he won fairly—so
that Miss Paquita would calm down, and that Mr.
Kesteven promised he'd meet him at noon yesterday,
and give it back to him. It’s true that Mr. Kesteven
pocketed it after you and the nurses had got Miss
Paquita into her room—I saw him pocket it when he
and I began putting the place straight. But this man
said that Kesteven never turned up at the place they
were to meet at. And so he came here for him—and
a nice temper he was in, too! As I say, I’d a job to
get him off. And—he went off with a threat, sir.”
“What threat?” -
“Well, sir, he threatened that if Mr. Kesteven
didn't hand back that money at once, he’d go to the
police about the revolver business, and charge Miss
Paquita with threatening to shoot him. And—I
don’t know where Mr. Kesteven is, sir. Nor where
Mr. Tress is.”
“I thought they were at Brighton,” said Hextall.
“No, sir! I told Miss Paquita that—I had to tell
her something to keep her quiet. Mr. Kesteven
went away at noon yesterday, and he telephoned to
Mr. Tress about seven last night, and Mr. Tress had
a couple of suit-cases packed, and went off in a car
somewhere or other to meet him, I expect. But I
don’t know where they are. What am I to do if this
man comes again, sir?”.


WHO IS KESTEVEN2 45
“Do you know him?” asked Hextall.
“No, sir, I don’t. There's a certain set of 'em
that's come here to play, but he's not one of them—
he'd never been here before that night. I neither
knew him nor the other man—he'd never been before,
either. Mr. Kesteven brought both of them—the three
came in just after Mr. and Miss Tress had come
back from the theatre.”
“You don’t even know their names?”
“Don’t even know that, sir. I know a lot—a big
lot!—of gentlemen about town, but I’d never set eyes
on either of those two before—never.”
“Was it any considerable amount of money that
was in question?” asked Hextall.
Fowler smiled.
“I saw several hundred pound bank-notes among
it before Mr. Kesteven picked it up, sir,” he an-
swered. “They’ve been playing high, sir—very high
indeed—I never saw anything like it, sometimes. Of
course, it's not my place to make remarks, but I've
drawn my own conclusions, and it's high time Mr.
Tress was protected.” -
“From-whom!” asked Hextall. He was hating
and loathing all this sordid revelation, and he felt a
certain nausea in asking the question—but not far
off was Paquita, and the remembrance of his promise
to her was strong in his mind.
The valet made a grimace and shook his head.
“Kesteven!” he said. “Kesteven! He's got hold
of my young master, and he's plucking him—like
you’d pluck a chicken!”


46 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
Hextall looked at the valet in silence for a mo-
ment. He knew that servants of this class were
adepts in knowledge of what went on amongst the
masters they served; Fowler looked old enough to
be the depository of many secrets. There was a
knowing gleam in the eye which he turned on the
young doctor as he spoke of Kesteven, and Hextall,
much as he disliked doing it, could not forbear from
taking the hint.
“Since you’ve said so much,” he observed, “I may
as well tell you that Miss Tress has been complain-
ing to me about the influence which Mr. Kesteven
exerts on her brother. She seems to think it 22
Fowler laughed a little.
“Oh, I know, sir! I’ve been down at Lynne Court
—several times. I’ve pitied Miss Paquita from the
bottom of my heart. Oh–yes!”
“Do you know anything of Mr. Kesteven?” asked
Hextall. “You say you know a lot of men about
town. Did you know him when he came here first?”
“Oddly enough, sir—no! I have known a lot of
his sort, in my time—you know, sir, the sort of men
who fasten on to rich young fellows, and stick to them
like leeches till they’ve bled 'em dry—hawks, as they
used to call 'em when I was younger. But I didn't
know him—and what's still queerer, none of my
friends know him. We’ve talked—as gentlemen's
servants do talk, sir, whether anybody knows it or
not—and none of us know him. We can’t recall him
or place him. I’ve friends who know every man of


WHO IS KESTEVEN2 47
that sort in the West End, and I’ve pointed Kesteven
out to them; nobody recognizes him.”
Hextall felt that he was in for far-reaching matters
by this time, and he began to ask further questions
without scruple.
“Do you know how and when Mr. Tress met him?”
he inquired.
“Not for certain, sir,” replied Fowler. “That is—
as to how they met. I know when it was. Mr. Tress
had just engaged me; he had a suite of rooms at the
Carlton Hotel at that time, last winter. He went to the
steeplechases at Newbury for a couple of days and
stayed at Reading—I did’nt go with him, as I’d a vio-
lent cold. He brought Kesteven back—and Kest-
even's never left him since. That was when they met,
sir; but as to how they met, or who made them known
to each other, I don’t know. I expect they just picked
each other up—on the race-course.”
“I dare say you can answer a question that is pos-
sibly very pertinent,” remarked Hextall. “In what
condition was Kesteven when he came? I mean—
how did he present himself to you? Was he well
dressed—did he seem to be in good circumstances?”
The valet laughed sneeringly.
“He was well dressed enough, sir,” he answered,
“but it was all the suit he had: a first-class tweed.
That, and a smart overcoat, and a small suit-case,
filled with good linen and dressing appointments, was
all he ever brought to us. But,” he added, with a
wink, “he’d plenty within a fortnight—more than a
dozen suit-cases like his would have held!”


48 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“You mean—at Mr. Tress's expense?” SUI ested
Hextall.
“Just so, sir—at Mr. Tress's expense. I know, of
course, because tradesmen talk. Mr. Tress took him
around to all his tradesmen—tailors, hosiers, shoe-
makers, hatters—they all sent their bills to Mr. Tress.
Lord, bless you, sir!” concluded Fowler, “Why,
there isn't a man goes down Piccadilly who's better
dressed than Kesteven! Oh, he's feathering his
nest—there's no doubt about that! A cool hand, sir,
and a clever one. Likes a good glass of wine, and
knows what is good, but never touches a drink be-
tween meals, and never takes more than a very modest
amount with his meals. He's not the sort that wants
brandy-and-soda or a half-bottle of champagne first
thing in a morning—China tea's his mark, or good
coffee. When a man's only capital is his brain,
sir—eh?”
“You mean, that Kesteven knows how to take care
of his?” said Hextall, smiling.
“No man better, sir. He's always got his wits
about him. I’ve noticed that when they're going to
play, here at nights, or down at Lynne Court, Kest-
even never even drinks at dinner. Not hel—a mouth-
ful of mineral water, with a squeeze of lemon in it, is
all he wants.”
“There is one thing I can’t quite make out,” ob-
served Hextall. “I don't understand his encouraging
Mr. Tress to drink.”
Fowler shook his head.
º*
s


WHO IS KESTEVEN2 49
“He doesn’t, sir—I’ll say that for him,” he an-
swered frankly. “Miss Paquita blames him for that,
but she's wrong. The truth is, sir, Mr. Tress had got
on to that game before Kesteven came on the scene.
When I first came to him, he’d been alone for some
time in that suite of rooms he had at the Carlton, and
I found that he'd got into the habit of having a pint of
champagne as soon as he got up. He's got past that,
sir—it's brandy-and-soda—strong, now. No!—that's
not Kesteven's fault. My own opinion is—but per-
haps I’ve no right to give it.”
“Say what you think,” said Hextall. “It will go
no further.”
“Well, I think that Kesteven sees how things are,
and he's making a purse for himself as fast as ever
he can,” replied the valet. “And that’s why I don't
understand his bringing those other two men here the
other night—and not settling up with the dark fellow
who came back last evening. I know all the men
who’ve come here except those two—them I don't
know, and I'm certain there's some mystery about
them, and about that night. Now, what am I to do,
sir, if that man returns? Shall I warn 29
Just then a ring sounded from the outer door of the
flat. Fowler excused himself and went to answer it.
A moment later he returned, shaking his head.
“He’s here again, doctor!” he whispered. He's at
the door now, and the other man is with him.”


CHAPTER V
THE GREEK GENTLEMEN
HEXTALL's soul rose in revolt on hearing this news.
He realized that he was suddenly thrown into an un-
pleasant predicament. These men were evidently
bent on mischief: the master of the flat was away, and
his mentor with him; Fowler, after all, was only a
serving man. And there, behind a door or two, was
an invalid.
“Well?” he said, looking at the valet.
Fowler returned the look with a shake of the head
which suggested perplexity and entreaty; it was clear
that he was the sort of man who instinctively depends
upon a stronger will than his own.
“They won't go away for me, sir,” he said. “They
declare they’re going to stop here until they see some-
body. I thought, perhaps, that you would speak to
them?—being the doctor.”
“Where are they?” asked Hextall, unwilling. “In
the hall?”
“No, sir—I didn’t let them in. They’re on the
landing. I told them that neither Mr. Tress nor Mr.
Kesteven were here, but they wouldn’t believe me.
Perhaps if you told them—ah!”—he broke off as the
electric bell rang again. “There they are, you see,
sir! If they start that game 22
Hextall suddenly left the room and marched to the
front door. He opened it quietly, slipped out, and


THE GREEK GENTLEMEN 51
closed it behind him. The two men without, both
medium-heighted, slightly-built individuals stepped
mechanically back as he emerged, and looked up in
some surprise at his tall figure. And one muttered
a couple of words to his companion.
“The doctor!”
“Look here!” said Hextall, with characteristic
bluntness. “You must be good enough to go away.
I can't have my patient disturbed by your ringing or
knocking. The manservant has told you that Mr.
Tress and Mr. Kesteven are not here—they are away
from home. You are aware that Miss Tress met with
a serious accident, the other night—in your presence.
As her medical adviser—”
The man of the sinister eyes interrupted him with
a smile that was half incredulous, half sneering.
“That is all very well,” he said, in a voice marked
by a strong foreign accent. “But we do not know
anything about Miss Tress, or Miss Anybody—we do
not know any names of anybody that lives here—
Miss, Mrs. or Mr. We want those two men that we
met here the other night—the man that brought us
here, and the other we found here—with the young
woman.”
Hextall started at the contemptuous tone in which
the last two words were spoken. His face flushed,
and he drew himself up, and looked the speaker over
in warning fashion.
“I think you had better adopt a civil tone,” he said.


52 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
The man addressed laughed, showing his white
teeth under his black moustache, and a resentful
gleam came into his eyes.
“All right—just so!” he said, with a glance at his
companion. “If I speak plain to you, it is not so
plain as I can speak to the police—eh? We go there
if we don’t get satisfaction here, you understand?
No offence to you—you are the doctor—eh, yes!
But—you don't know all.”
“I can’t have my patient disturbed,” repeated Hex-
tall, who could think of nothing else to say. “I must
ask you to go away. Come back—if you must—when
Mr. Tress returns.” -
“Mr. Tress? Oh, yes, but we don’t know any Mr.
Tress,” retorted the leader, while his companion
laughed incredulously. “All we know is—this flat.
And what happened to us—here. Some of it you
saw—the end of it. Look you!” he continued, his
volubility increasing. “We show you how it is, eh?
Then you will understand. We are Greek gentlemen
—in business in Manchester—well-known gentlemen.
We come to London for a little pleasure, eh? The
other night we dine at the Café Imperial—all right.
We get talking—you known—to the man you saw
here—the elder man, fine-looking fellow. We have
a drink or two with him—very pleasant man, very
agreeable. He suggests we have a quiet little game
of cards at a friend's. Well—no objection—little
what you call spree, eh? We come here with him—
we find the young fellow, the young lady. Every-
thing goes all right at first—we have another drink—


THE GREEK GENTLEMEN 53
we talk—quite agreeable, oh quite! Then the young
lady retires, and we play. We play some time, and
I win—quite fairly I win. I do not cheat—no! Why
should I cheat?—I am a gentleman; I have plenty
money—but!—I give you my card to show you who
I am—my friend he give you his card, too. Ask any-
body in Manchester if they know our names—oh,
yes!”
Before Hextall could do anything to prevent them,
each man had pulled out a beautiful card-case and
had forced upon him highly-finished, perfectly-en-
graved cards. He glanced at them and read: Mr.
Victor Demetriadi—Mr. George Chimbouloglos. In
the corners of each were addresses in one of the best
residential quarters of Manchester.
“These!—all correct—eh?” continued Mr. Victor
Demetriadi. “Quite respectable, eh? Well, I tell
you. We continue to play—I win more—I win
twelve hundred pounds—yes!”
“Twelve hundred pounds!” exclaimed Hextall.
“Yes, but half an hour before that I am losing fif-
teen hundred!” exclaimed Demetriadi. “Eh—eh?
There was no talk of cheating then—no! But, you
see, we had settled to stop at two o'clock, precise.
Well, at five minutes to two, I am winning twelve hun-
dred—I have it in my pocket, because we pay up as
we go on—plenty of money in there behind you!
Then out comes the girl—the young lady—with a re-
volver, and says we are cheating her brother—me,
most!—and threatens to shoot—especially me—holds
the revolver at my head, eh? Oh!—it was all what


54 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
you call a plant! A plant—of course! If I had been
losing—if my friend Chimbouloglos had been losing
at two o'clock—what?”
“It was at any rate no plant that my patient got
shot,”observed Hextall quietly.
The two young men turned and looked at each
other. A glance of intelligence passed between them
which was not lost on Hextall. But neither spoke,
and Hextall was suddenly minded to ask a question.
“As you witnessed the affair, how did she get
shot?” he said.
Once more the two exchanged glances. Then one
glance seemed to answer the other, and the man who
had kept silence up to then spoke.
“The elder man tried to take the revolver from
her,” he replied quietly, and with less accent than his
companion. “She struggled, and in the struggle the
revolver went off. But she retained her hold on it,
and she kept us covered until you came.”
Demetriadi laughed.
“Bah!” he sneered “All a plant! I tell you, if I had
lost—if my friend had lost much—then, ah, then, it
would have been all right. This is a swindling affair
—all confederates—of course!”
“I understand,” said Hextall, who was now deter-
mined to get at the bottom of things, “that you were
induced to put the money back on a promise that it
should be handed to you yesterday. Is that so?”
“So! The elder man, he says: “Put it back and
quieten the girl, and I bring it to you at the Café
Imperial, at noon—all right.” And Chimbouloglos


THE GREEK GENTLEMEN 55
here, he say the same thing. So—I pay it back. But
—we go to the Café Imperial at noon, yesterday, and
we wait—and no man, and no money! No, I am
cheated—done in—what they call had-for-the-mug!
But 22
He wagged a finger at the closed door behind Hex-
tall, and his teeth gleamed under the dark moustache.
“I will have my money what I fairly win, or I will
have my revenge!” he said. “I will go to the police.
Chimbouloglos, he say, ‘Leave it alone—do not
trouble yourself—the money is nothing!’ Just so—
the money is nothing—I have plenty of money—I am
a very rich man. But—my honour! I am brought
here—gambling den, eh?—I win my money fair and
square, as you call it—then I am threatened with re-
volver, made to pay back on a promise—and the men
hook it! But—the woman is here—trapped! Bah!
—Chimbouloglos is what the vulgar boys call fat-
head!”
“Mr. Chimbouloglos is a very wise man,” said Hex-
tall. “I give you the same advice. And I assure
you that you are under a wrong impression about the
young lady inside—quite wrong!”
“Wrong!” exclaimed the injured one. “What!—
when she stick a revolver at my head, and threaten
to blow out my brains if I don’t put back the money
I have fairly won? Oh, no, no, no!—I am not a fool,
Mr. Doctor—come, now!”
For a moment of silence Hextall looked the two
over more carefully. Mr. George Chimbouloglos
seemed to him to be a good-tempered, easy-going sort


56 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
of young man; Mr. Victor Demetriadi, in spite of his
sinister eyes, looked to have some good points. Pa-
quita's newly-enrolled knight resolved, in her service,
to use a little diplomacy, and to see what an appeal
to whatever sense of honour the two young men pos-
sessed would do.
“I am sure you are not a fool, Mr. Demetriadi,”
he said, “and I am also sure you are both men of
honour. Now, supposing I give you my word of hon-
our that you are mistaken?”
Chimbouloglos nodded readily enough, but Deme-
triadi stared.
“But I see it with my own sight!” he exclaimed.
“What!—you think I don't know what is a revolver—
me?”
“We mustn't stand talking here all day,” said Hex-
tall. “Step round to my house with me for a moment,
and I think I can explain matters to you—all except
one, at any rate.”
The two Greeks followed him without demur. And
as he led them round to Wimpole Street, Hextall re-
flected, with a sense of grim amazement, on the ex-
treme smallness of this world. He himself was a
Lancastrian, and he had learnt his medicine, and
walked his hospitals at the Victoria University in
Manchester; consequently he knew Manchester well,
and he had at once recognized the names of the two
Greeks as those of two leading houses in the Greek
trading community of the great Lancashire city.
These were evidently scions of those houses, up for a
lark in London—and the pride and spirit of Mr.


THE GREEK GENTLEMEN 57
Victor Demetriadi had been touched. For Paquita's
sake, he must give them an explanation—at Kest-
even's cost.
Being a little of a diplomatist Hextall first spoke
of Manchester and his own connexion with it—this
transferred matters to a friendly footing. Then,
pledging the two young men to secrecy, and putting
them on their honour, he told them as much as he
thought it necessary they should know. And to his
great relief Demetriadi immediately accepted the
situation.
“Oh, in that case!” he said, spreading out his
hands; “of course, I have no more to say, eh? Noth-
ing! I am sorry for the young lady. But that fel-
low—what you call Kesteven, eh? Ah! And—”
He broke off sharply and glanced at his companion,
and once more the two exchanged the look of signifi-
cance which Hextall had twice previously noticed.
Presently Demetriadi went on:
“Perhaps we better tell you something we see, or
think we see,” he said. “Something that make
UIS 99
Chimbouloglos quietly interrupted him.
“I don't simply think I saw,” he said. “I did see!”
“You tell him, then,” said Demetriadi. “You
know,” he added, turning to Hextall, “I–maybe I
didn't see as clearly as Chimbouloglos that night—I’d
had a good deal of wine, eh? Not too much—but
plenty. But Chimbouloglos he hadn't—he see all
right, you know.”
“What did you see?” asked Hextall.


58 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
Chimbouloglos flicked the ash from his cigarette
and looked thoughtfully after it as it fell. When he
looked up at Hextall his youthful face was very grave
and he shook his head.
“It’s a serious thing to have to say,” he answered,
“and I shouldn’t say it if I weren't certain of it. But
since you’ve told us what you have about that man
Kesteven, I’ll tell you of this. That revolver didn't
go off by accident.”
“What!” exclaimed Hextall. “You mean
“I mean that I’m absolutely certain that Kesteven
discharged it as he was trying to take it from the
girl,” said Chimbouloglos. “It was my impression
that he meant to shoot her. I was just behind them—I
saw his hand. She started violently just then—or
she'd have been shot through the heart. I'm sure!”
“You can trust Chimbouloglos,” remarked Deme-
triadi. “If he says he saw—he saw.”
Hextall received this news in silence. And when
his two visitors had gone, he sat for a long time star-
ing at nothing—thinking. The atmosphere of mys-
tery had suddenly been deepened by something that
looked very like the foreshadowing of murder. He
saw, by one of those sudden mental illuminations
which come as if they were directly inspired, how
Kesteven, if he really wished to get rid of Paquita
Tress, had had an admirable opportunity during that
struggle for the revolver of achieving his object with-
out incriminating himself. No one would have sus-
pected that he meant to shoot her: he had the best of
all possible reasons for interfering with her before
92
*


THE GREEK GENTLEMEN 59
she could have hurt others or herself. It could easily
have been done—Kesteven would have no idea that
the young Greek had particularly watchful eyes.
Easily done! The more Hextall considered it, the
more he was inclined to believe in the story he had
just heard. But—why should Kesteven wish to kill
Paquita? A big question—and one that gave rise
to many other questions and doubts and problems.
Out of the cloud of these rose a clear fact—Paquita
was in danger. He turned to his day's work realizing
that his promise to help her was going to involve him
in complications the result of which it was at that
time impossible to foresee.


CHAPTER VI
MR. SMITH OF PUMP COURT
At five o'clock that afternoon, Hextall jumped out
of a taxi-cab at the top of Middle Temple Lane, and
hastily descending that ancient throughfare turned off
into Pump Court, where he proceeded to climb a flight
of well-worn stairs until he came to an oaken door on
the lintel of which was painted in faded white letters
the name “Mr. John Smith.” Those learned in the
peculiar mysteries of the various Inns of Court would
have deduced two facts from those faded letters and
from that lintel—namely, that, first, Mr. John Smith
had occupied the set of chambers behind the double
door for some time, and that, second, he did not share
them with anybody else. They might further have
argued from these two facts that Mr. John Smith was
a successful barrister who had no need to share cham-
bers and clerks, and kept up a fine show of both. In
that, however, they would have been wrong—the plain
truth was that Smith, an old schoolfellow of Hex-
tall's, was a man of considerable means, who trifled
a little at the Bar, and worked hard at what other
men would have treated as a hobby. It pleased him
to have a large set of chambers all to himself, and he
never felt lonely in them in spite of the fact that he
kept but one clerk, who was duly on show between
the hours of ten and five-thirty.
e
º
r


MR. SMITH OF PUMP COURT 61
This clerk opened the outer oak in answer to Hex-
tall's knock. He was a queer-faced, slightly squint-
eyed, foxy-haired individual, and John Smith boasted
that it took him from half-past four to half-past five
every afternoon to wash away the ink-stains which he
had accumulated since his arrival in the morning, the
spilling and smearing of ink over his hands and face
being apparently one of his chief objects in life.
Hextall caught him in this ablutionary stage, and
looked thoughtfully at as much as he could see of him
over a mass of soapsuds and towel.
“Good afternoon, Styler,” said Hextall. “Mr.
Smith in?”
“No, he ain’t, Doctor Hextall, and that’s a fact,
unusal as it is,” answered Styler, cheerful and un-
abashed. “The truth is, sir, there's a very interesting
case on, down at the C. C. C., sir—Central Criminal
Court, you know—and Mr. Smith's been there all
day. I looked in myself this afternoon, sir, and it
was expected to be over before or about five, so I
don’t think he'll be long now. Won't you come in
doctor?—I don’t think from what I heard of it that it
could last much longer—plain murder case, but with
a few very nice, interesting incidents: that’s what at-
tracted the guv'nor, of course.”
“I suppose murder cases and those sort of things
appeal to you, don’t they, Styler?” observed Hextall,
as he walked into Smith's inner rooms and dropped
into a chair. “You like that atmosphere?”
“Love it!” answered Styler, polishing himself
vigorously with a towel. “It’s meat, drink, victuals,


MR. SMITH OF PUMP COURT 63
of age, came softly into the room, beaming on its oc-
cupant. He was in wig and gown, the wig a little
awry, the gown bunched up in a plump, white hand,
and he looked as mild a mannered man as ever ex-
changed gentle witticisms with a judicial joker. No
one, judging by appearances, would have suspected
Mr. John Smith of sharing the tastes of his clerk in
the matter of criminology.
“Hello, Hextall?” he said, in a voice as mild and
gentle as his looks. “Didn't expect to find you here.
What brings you?”
“Something that will interest you,” answered Hex-
tall. “A—case.”
“Well, I expected that from merely seeing you,”
observed Smith. He threw off his gown, handed his
wig to Styler, dropped into an easy chair, and pro-
duced a cigarette-case. “Something that's occurred
in your practice?” he asked, when the clerk had gone
away. “And that is, of course, of pressing impor-
tance. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here; I think you'd
have waited until we met. Take a cigarette and tell
me what it is.”
He settled himself in his chair, leaned his head
comfortably against the padded back, closed his eyes
behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, and listened in un-
broken silence while Hextall told his story. When it
came to an end he threw away his cigarette, took off
his spectacles, and sat up. The mild, blue eyes sud-
denly flashed into wakefulness.


64 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“That's deeply interesting, Hextall,” he said. “It
interests—me. That's admitting a good deal. There's
a lot behind the superficial facts of the story.”
“You think so?” said Hextall, uneasily. He had
half hoped that Smith would pooh-pooh the whole
thing and laugh at him. “You think it's an affair
that ought to be looked into?”
“Oh, certainly! I'm afraid you’ll have to look into
it, as you’ve pledged yourself to the young lady,” an-
swered Smith, with a quiet smile. “As I happen to
know your slightly quixotic temperament, I’m sure
you will. Now, I’ll make one or two remarks.
First of all, as to the story of the two young Greeks.
It's not at all strange, as I chance to be a Manchester
man, that I know those chaps—just know them: I met
both when I was last in Manchester. Young Victor is
the nephew of old Antonio Demetriadi, the big mer-
chant—he's only recently come to their business
house from Athens, and he's inclined to be a bit of a
rake. The other lad is of a quiter sort. If George
Chimbouloglos says he's certain that he saw this man
Kesteven attempt to shoot Miss Paquita, you may be
sure that he did see—something of that sort.”
Hextall frowned and drew a long breath.
“Then—she’s in danger?” he muttered.
“I should say she, and her brother, and the little
brother, are all in danger—and from Kesteven,” an-
swered Smith quietly. “The next word is—Why?
That’s to be found out.”
“I told you what the valet, Fowler, says,” remarked
Dr. Hextall. “Nobody knows Kesteven.”


MR. SMITH OF PUMP COURT 65
“Nobody that Fowler knows,” corrected Smith.
“But Fowler’s world is confined to Fowler's sort—
Fowler's fellow-gentlemen's gentlemen. Somebody
will know Kesteven. You want me to help?”
“If you will!” exclaimed Hextall. “I know if you
take a hand you’ll do it thoroughly. But—what can
we do?”
Smith smiled and lighted a fresh cigarette.
“I shouldn’t think much of my powers if I couldn't
do something,” he answered. “What we’ll do is to
find out about Kesteven—who he is. Now, can you
trust this valet, Fowler?”
“I think so,” replied Hextall. “He’s certainly no
love for Kesteven.”
“Can you get Fowler to come to your house for an
hour this evening?”asked Smith. “You can? Very
good—make it nine o'clock. I shall send Styler to
meet him. You’ll leave them together. And you’ll
tell Fowler to bring with him, if possible, a photo-
graph of Kesteven, and one of Mr. Darrell Tress.”
“Styler!” exclaimed Hextall. “You mean to set
him to work?”
“I mean to set the smartest sleuth-hound that I
know of to work,” answered Smith. “Leave it to me!
When you're gone, I shall tell Styler what you’ve
told me, in my own way, and I shall send him up to
have a chat with Fowler, to-night. After that, Styler
will take his own line in finding out all about Mr.
Kesteven. But—he will find out.”


MR. SMITH OF PUMP COURT 67
Hextall remembered Paquita's recent midnight es-
capade. She had then paid scant attention to the
nurse who was left in charge of her. But upon re-
flection he decided that Paquita was now much more
amenable—he believed that she would do what he told
her to do. .
“All right,” he answered. “I’ll see to that. She
shall be watched night and day.”
“Very good—that’s all right,” said Smith. “I’m
giving you all these instructions with a purpose. And
it's for a purpose that I want you to go down to Lynne
Court with your patient. I want you to see the little
brother she spoke of.” A.
“Yes?” said Hextall, wonderingly. “Why?”
“You’ve seen Miss Paquita; you’ve seen the elder
brother; now I want you to see the younger one. I
want you to observe if he's a healthy youngster; in
whose charge he is; anything you notice about him,
and about the arrangements made for him. Never
mind why, now—but give me your report when you
come back.”
“I don’t know what you’re after,” said Hextall,
“but I’ll obey you.”
“I know what I'm after. While you’re doing these
things, I shall be doing something else—making my-
self thoroughly acquainted with the history of the
Tress family and the circumstances under which these
young people came into this wealth. It's a good job,
Hextall, in cases of this sort, that guardian angels
like you and me can find things out—and in this par-
ticular case, egad! I think the young folks do want


68 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
guardianizing. Now, you haven't any idea where
this young ass Darrell has got to?”
“Not the least! But he's with Kesteven, of course.”
“Oh, of course! Well, they’ll either turn up, or
news of them will turn up. Now we’ve done all we
can at present, so off you go and arrange for Fowler
to meet Styler at your house to-night, at nine o'clock.
And after you’ve taken Miss Paquita and her nurses
down to Lynne Court come back and report to me.”
Hextall always took John Smith at his word, and he
rose obediently and made for the door. But before
he opened it he ventured one further question.
“I’m to leave Styler and the valet alone?”
“Absolutely—and don't ask Styler any questions
afterwards,” replied Smith, with a bland smile.
“Styler's peculiar methods are mole-like, and like all
moles he doesn’t care about being seen when's he's
digging a way underground. However, he's unlike
the mole in one important respect—he doesn't cast
up evidences of his labours. Off you go, and leave
matters to me.”
Hextall went back to the West, and saw Fowler,
and made his arrangements, and impressed particular
secrecy on him. As he had expected, he found the
valet ready and eager enough to enter into any plot
against Kesteven; it appeared that he had several
crows to pull with that individual, and was only too
glad to begin the process. What passed between him
and Styler at their interview that night, Hextall did
not know, but he chanced to see them in his hall as


MR. SMITH OF PUMP COURT 69
they went away, and he fancied from a certain gleam
in the valet's eye, and from an assured smug satis-
faction in the clerk's queer face, that their secret con-
ference had yielded pleasure to both of them.


CHAPTER VII
THE EARLY MORNING TELEGRAMS
As Hextall was putting the finishing touches to his
toilet next morning, he heard a taxi-cab pull up at his
door, and looking out of the window, he saw John
Smith dismount from it, followed by a tall, quietly-
attired, middle-aged woman. He hastily finished his
dressing and ran down, to find his visitors in the hall.
“A word or two with you,” said Smith. “This is
Nurse Palliser. Let her sit down in one of your wait-
ing-rooms for a few minutes while we talk. Look
here,” he went on, when he and Hextall were alone
in the consulting-room. “That woman outside there
is a fully trained, properly certificated nurse. She's
also one of my most valued assistants.”
“Yes?” responded Hextall, who was already seeing
what Smith was after. “And you want 92
“I want you to take her down to Lynne Court as one
of your patient's two nurses. You can easily get rid
of one of the two you now have, and instal
Nurse Palliser in her place. Do it without exciting
any suspicion on the part of the other nurse. As for
Nurse Palliser, she'll take good care to arouse no sus-
picion in anybody—she’s as clever as they make 'em.
I’ve employed her before—several times. All you’ve
got to do is to arrange with her—now—when she's to
come to her patient.”


THE EARLY MORNING TELEGRAMS 71
“You want her to be in a position to report to you,
I suppose?” said Hextall.
“Just so—especially after what Styler told me last
night. He got a good deal out of Fowler which you
wouldn't have got. Never mind that, now. Make
these arrangements, and take Miss Paquita with the
two women down to Surrey—when?”
“The day after to-morrow,” answered Hextall
promptly. “In the afternoon.”
He had no difficulty in carrying out Smith's wishes.
Paquita, rapidly recovering from the first shock
of her accident, was evidently only too pleased to
let her doctor and new-found friend make any ar-
rangements he considered necessary, and she left the
flat in high spirits. She and Hextall travelled in one
car: the nurses in a second; all the way through the
Surrey lanes she laughed and chattered with gay
vivacity. But as they approached the hill country of
the Sussex border she became thoughtful and almost
gloomy.
“There's Lynne Court!” she said suddenly, point-
ing to a house which showed against the sky-line on a
distant hill. “There—up amongst the woods. I
thought I should be glad to see it—and now I’m not.”
“Why?” asked Hextall.
“Because I don't know what I shall find when I get
there!” she answered. “They may be there—Darrell
and Kesteven. If they are, there’ll be more of the
Kesteven sort with them. In that case—”


72 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“I don't think you’ll find them there,” said Hextall.
“And if they are—why, then, I shall have to speak
to them pretty plainly.”
Paquita sighed.
“What a blessing Fowler happened to light on
you!” she said artlessly. “And what a relief to have
a man about that one can depend upon! Will you
really have to go back to London—at once?”
“Must!” replied Hextall with forced determina-
tion. “But I’m always within call, you know.”
There was no Darrell and no Kesteven at Lynne
Court. And Lynne Court itself, an old, grey-walled,
half-timbered manor-house, set amidst pine woods,
on a slope of the hills which overlook the Sussex
Weald, seemed to Hextall to be suggestive of nothing
but peace.
The house itself was ancient and picturesque: its
gardens and pleasure grounds were ideal; from a
south terrace there was a glimpse of the English Chan-
nel; the whole place was one in which to dream away
one's days. And Paquita evidently saw what her
companion was thinking and turned to him with quick
intuition as they reached the house.
“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “It is beautiful,
and it would be all right—if it weren't for—you
know what. Here's my little brother, Ronnie.”
Mindful of his promise to John Smith, Hextall
looked with interest at the boy who came running out
to greet his sister. He was a fine, healthy-looking
lad of seven, alert, quick-spirited; Hextall fancied
that the evidences of the Spanish strain in him were
.
f


74 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“I’ll tell you what he told me,” she said. “He’s
a quick child and he has sense enough even at his
age to keep things to himself. He says that the other
night—a few nights ago—he couldn't sleep after he
went to bed, and he got up to look out of the window
at the moonlight. And on the terrace, near the yew-
tree, he saw Mr. Kesteven—with Miss Brock.”
“The governess!”
“Yes. What made him tell me was that he heard
me ask the housekeeper if Mr. Tress and Mr. Kest-
even were here or had been here since I went away.
When she said they hadn’t, Ronnie pulled me aside
and told me—that. And now it makes me think.
Because it was Kesteven who got Miss Brock for us.
I wanted a governess for Ronnie, and he brought
Miss Brock.”
“You don't think the boy is mistaken?” suggested
Hextall, after a pause.
“No! I’m sure he's not. Ronnie is very ob-
servant. What shall I do? Shall I ask Miss Brock
what Kesteven was doing here?”
Hextall quickly thought over this question.
“No!” he answered. “Don’t! Wait. Look here!”
he went on earnestly. “I want you to feel that you're
all right so long as you have my two nurses with you.
Be good, and obey them—to please me. If there's
the least need for me, you’ve only to wire, and I shall
be with you as fast as a car can bring me. In any
case, I shall be here to see you the day after to-mor-
row—professionally, you know.”


THE EARLY MORNING TELEGRAMS 75
“I’m not afraid about myself,” answered Paquita.
“I’m wondering where my unfortunate brother is.
Of course, I know what’ll happen. He'll turn up in
a day or two, repentant and remorseful because he
left me in London, and he’ll promise amend, ent,
and then Kesteven will come on the scene again, and
—but there, what's the use of talking? Come and
have some tea.”
Hextall remained at Lynne Court until the close of
the afternoon, and then, after a confidential talk with
the two nurses and a promise to Paquita to be back
on the next day but one, set off in his car to London.
An hour later, as he was slowly riding through Epsom
town street, looking over an evening paper which he
had just bought, he heard himself hailed by name,
and glancing up saw Fowler, seated in a car which
was passing in the opposite direction. The valet
mutely signified a wish to speak, and stopping his car,
got out, and Hextall hastened to join him. They
walked over to the side of the road.
“I’m on my way to Lynne Court, sir,” said Fowler.
“I had this wire a couple of hours ago.”
He pulled out a telegram and handed it to Hextall,
who immediately noted that it had been dispatched
from Folkstone. It was addressed to Fowler at the
flat in Queen Anne Street, and it ran:
“Get the Rolls-Royce car from the garage at once,
and go down with it yourself to Lynne Court and wait
there until I come.
* “DARRELL TRESS.”


76 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“You see where that was sent off from, sir?” said
Fowler, pointing to the postmark. “I expect they've
been across at Boulogne, having a turn at the Casino.
They’ll be turning up at Lynne Court some time this
evening.”
Hextall stared at the telegram without seeing the
words in it. His mind was already preoccupied. He
was wondering if he ought to tell Fowler about what
Ronnie Tress had told his sister. He wished he had
Smith—or even Styler—at hand.
“Look here, Fowler,” he said suddenly. “You’ve
been trusted a good deal and you’ll have to be trusted
more. I don’t know what Mr. Smith's clerk arranged
with you last night 22
“Strictly confidential—for the time being, sir,”
said Fowler.
“Just so. I was going to continue—but I've no
doubt you’re aware that this is, or may be, a serious
business, and everybody concerned in it will have to
keep their eyes open—on behalf of the young people
you’re serving. You understand?”
“Quite so, sir—nobody better. I’ll do my best,
Doctor Hextall. Trust me!”
“Well, I've just heard something at Lynne Court
that’s disquieting,” continued Hextall. “It may be
nothing—it may be a good deal. I’ll trust you with
it.”
He went on to tell the valet of what the boy had
seen. And at the mention of Miss Brock, Fowler's
eyes gleamed, and he smiled knowingly.
-


THE EARLY MORNING TELEGRAMS 77
“Ah, just so, sir!” he exclaimed. “I’m not sur-
prised. I’ve seen Kesteven and the governess talking
on the quiet before now. In a big house like that,
sir, where there are no end of nooks and corners, and
where one's going about, sir, at odd times—messages
and so on—one does come across some queer things.
Oh, yes—I’m not surprised! But that shows that
Kesteven has been there on the sly since he and the
master left Queen Anne Street.”
“Evidently,” assented Hextall. He could not think
of anything useful or practical that ought to be said,
but some instinct made him keep Fowler waiting.
“Well,” he went on, after a pause, “I can’t think of
anything more to tell you, Fowler. Keep your eyes
open—look after everything as far as you can—and
be sure to wire me if you think I'm wanted. I’ll see
that it's made worth your while.” -
“That's all right, sir; rely on me,” answered Fow-
ler. “If anything goes wrong I’ll let you know at
once.”
Hextall nodded and returned to his car and re-
sumed his journey. More than once before he
reached London he was tempted to tell the driver to
turn round and go back to Lynne Court. He could
easily make an excuse for his return, and he would
be on the spot when Darrell Tress and his companion
came back that night, as they surely would. But
he was afraid of over-fussiness, afraid of exciting
Kesteven's suspicions; moreover, Paquita had a cap-
able bodyguard. In the end, he went home, wonder-
ing what would be the next development in the strange


78 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
mystery into which he had been drawn so suddenly
and curiously. He would have been glad to exchange
ideas with John Smith, and twice during the evening
he rang him up on the telephone—once at his flat in
the Adelphi, and once at his club. But Smith was
neither at home nor at the club, and he got no news
of him.
That night a sudden relapse on the part of a patient
kept Hextall out of bed until three o'clock; con-
sequently he slept beyond his usual hour of rising
next morning. He woke to hear voices outside his
bedroom door; presently, after a loud knock, it
opened, and in walked John Smith. And in his hand
Smith carried two telegrams.
“Your maid was just taking this in as I rode up to
your door,” he said, in his usual curt fashion, as he
handed a buff envelope to Hextall. “So I brought
it up to you. Read it—I’ve a pretty good idea what
the contents are.”
Hextall, only half awake, tore open the envelope
and read. The telegram had been handed in at a vil-
lage office, at eight o'clock. And what it said was:
“Kesteven was found in grounds here early this
morning, shot dead.
“FOWLER.”
Hextall pushed the telegram to Smith with a mut-
tered exclamation of astonishment. But Smith
glanced at it almost unconcernedly.
“From Fowler—of course,” he said. “Just so!
Shot dead? Quite so—but how? Now look at my


THE EARLY MORNING TELEGRAMS 79
telegram, Hextall. That's from Nurse Palliser. She,
you see, is more precise in her information. Look!”
He tossed the second telegram across, and Hextall,
now thoroughly wide awake, took in its contents at a
glance.
“Kesteven was murdered during night in Lynne
Court Spinney.”


CHAPTER VIII
PLAIN MURDER
HEXTALL threw the telegrams back to Smith and
sprang out of bed. He was wide awake by that time,
and his brain was setting furiously to work on the
problem presented by this remarkable news. Out of
the seething mass of ideas and impressions one reso-
lute conviction forced itself uppermost.
“I must go down to Lynne Court at once!” he said,
as he began to dress. “That's certain!”
“Your day's work?” suggested Smith. “There's
that to consider.”
“I know. Fortunately I can get help without diffi-
culty—a man close by. Good heavens, Smith!—what
an extraordinary development! I suppose your
Nurse Palliser knows what she is wiring about?”
“If Nurse Palliser says Kesteven was murdered he
was murdered,” answered Smith. “She meant me
to figure on that without any uncertainty as to his
death resulting from suicide or accident. She's a
smart woman, and she would size things up for her-
self in two minutes. So the next thing will be to find
out—who murdered Kesteven. Look here—I’m com-
ing with you.”
“Good—good!” exclaimed Hextall, hurrying on
with his dressing. “It will be a mighty relief.”
4.


PLAIN MURDER 81
“So is Styler—who is outside in a car. And as
neither of us have breakfasted, I’ll run down and tell
your servants that we’ll breakfast with you, hurriedly.
We must get to Lynne Court as quickly as we can.”
Left alone, Hextall was suddenly seized by a recol-
lection which turned him hot and cold with fear. He
remembered Paquita’s words—words spoken in all
apparent earnestness as she sat in his easy-chair,
pouring out her woes to him.
“I’ve often been tempted to shoot him!—I could
have done it once, and nobody would have ever
known!” -
Was it possible that something had occurred the
previous evening which had made the girl desperate;
and that in her desperation she had killed the man
who was the cause of so much trouble? It might be—
and yet there was the fact that Hextall had left her
carefully watched and guarded; it seemed impossible
that she could have done anything without the know-
ledge of the two women whom he had placed in
charge of her. He ran over the wording of the tele-
gram again. “Found shot in the grounds,” said Fow-
ler; “Murdered in Lynne Court Spinney,” said Nurse
Palliser, more particular. That was out of doors,
away from the house. Hextall felt more cheerful
after that—he could not conceive it possible that
Paquita could have escaped from her nurses into
the grounds at night. Nevertheless, a load of anxiety
was heavy upon him all the way down to Lynne
Court, and he had to confess to himself that his con-


82 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
g
cern for Paquita was due to the undoubted fact that
he had fallen head over ears in love with her.
None of the three talked much on their journey
until they came in sight of Lynne Court, perched
high on its pine-clothed hill. As they turned into the
village at the foot of that hill, Smith pulled up the
driver.
“Look here,” he said to Hextall. “Styler and I
won't go up to the house with you, at present, anyway.
I know this place—there's a very good wayside inn
here—we'll get off at that and wait events. Go to the
Lynne Arms,” he continued, turning to the driver.
“We’ll stop there.”
In front of the inn they saw Fowler, talking to a
police-inspector in uniform. He came quickly for-
ward on secing Hextall, and opened the door of the
Car.
“Glad you’ve come, sir,” he said. “I’ve just sent
you another wire—from Miss Tress. She wanted you
to come down.”
“Is Miss Tress all right?” asked Hextall.
“She's all right, sir—upset, of course. The whole
place is upset. I’ve just sent a wire at the same time
from Mr. Tress to his solicitors, asking one of them
to come at once and to bring a detective. But as I
was saying to the inspector here, I think it’ll take a
good many detectives to settle this affair!”
“Hextall,” said Smith, “I think we had better go
into the inn and hear what Fowler has to tell. Per-
haps the inspector will come with us? Now,” he con-
tinued, a little later, when all five men were closeted


PLAIN MURDER 83
in a private parlour, “supposing you give us the main
facts of what has occurred, Fowler? I imagine that
you're in possession of them?”
Fowler, who had exchanged a few words in private
with Styler, looked at Smith with a respectful interest.
“Yes, I know what's happened, sir,” he answered.
“What you might call the plain facts of it, sir—on
the surface, as it were. But there's a deal behind
that, sir!”
“Give us the plain facts, if you please,” said Smith.
“Well, sir, it was like this,” responded Fowler. “I
arrived at Lynne Court about seven o’clock last night,
to wait for Mr. Tress coming home. About ten
o'clock he came. Mr. Kesteven was with him.
They'd driven in a car from Brighton; I made out
from the driver that they’d been dining at the Hotel
Metropole there. And they’d brought Mr. Tickell
with them.”
“Who,” asked Smith, “is Mr. Tickell?”
“Mr. Maurice Tickell, sir. I can’t say—exactly.
He's a gentleman who has been to Mr. Tress's flat in
Queen Anne Street, but I don’t think he's ever been
down here before.”
The inspector put in a word.
“He hasn't,” he said. “I got that fact out of the
butler. It was the first time Mr. Tickell had been to
Lynne Court.”
Smith signed to Fowler to proceed.
“Well, sir,” continued Fowler, with a shake of his
head, “Mr. Tress, sir, he'd evidently been dining
rather freely—you understand? I took him straight


84 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
off to bed; he's always quite manageable under those
circumstances, sir, quite—never quarrelsome nor
noisy, and when I’d seen that he was perfectly safe,
and sound asleep, I let Miss Tress's nurses know that
he’d come back—I thought Miss Tress had better
know.”
“Did they call her?” asked Hextall.
“Yes, sir; Nurse Palliser told her. And that Mr.
Kesteven and Mr. Tickell were there; I thought she'd
better know everything. I waited outside Miss Tress's
rooms while Nurse Palliser told her. Nurse Palliser
said she was all right about it when she heard that
Mr. Tress had gone to sleep. So then I went down.
Mr. Mountain—that's the butler, sir—told me the
other two had gone into the billiard-room and had
had sandwiches and whiskey-and-soda sent in to them.
I took a look at them—for my own satisfaction.
They were playing pool.”
“Both sober?” asked Smith.
Fowler looked at Hextall with a knowing smile.
“I never knew either of them anything else, sir,”
he answered. “Mr. Kesteven was too smart even to
indulge in that way, and I never saw Mr. Tickell drink
anything much very. No; they were just amusing
themselves, and eating their sandwiches in between,
like. And they were still there, in the billiard-room;
not playing, but sitting and smoking, when Mr. Moun-
tain went his rounds for the night. Mr. Kesteven said
to him that he needn't wait up, as he'd turn out the
lights. That was a thing that had often happened be-
fore—he'd a trick of sitting up late, had Kesteven,


PLAIN MURDER 85
both here and at the flat. So Mountain went to bed.
And when he got up in the morning—six o'clock—he
found the billiard-room lights still on, and one of the
French windows opening on to the lawn, was un-
fastened—”
“Unfastened—or a little way open?” asked Smith.
“It was a little ajar, sir; I saw it myself a few
minutes later, because Mountain called my attention
to it. I’d got up earlier than usual, and I’d just taken
a look at Mr. Tress who was fast asleep, and had then
gone down to get a cup of early tea, when Mountain
called me in to the billiard-room to show me. He's a
bit of a fidget about things like that, is Mountain. It
was while we were standing at the billiard-room win-
dow that one of the gardeners waved to us across the
lawn, from the edge of the spinney. We could see he
was in a state about something, and after he'd waved
his arm he started running to us and we went out to
meet him. He's a man who lives in one of the cot-
tages at the edge of the park, just outside the village
here, and he comes across the spinney to his work
every morning. We could see that something had
given him a turn, and he blurted it all out as he came
up. “There's a gentleman lying dead in the spinney
yonder!” he says. “It’s Mr. Kesteven. And there's
blood on his face!” So then Mountain and I hurried
off with him, and he took us straight to the spot—a
bit of a clearing where there's a rustic seat. Kesteven
was lying at the side of it, and he was dead sure
enough, and cold and stiff. We saw at once how he'd


86 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
been killed—shot through the temples. And so we
took proper precautions.”
“Of what nature?” asked Smith.
“Mountain sent the gardener for the police and the
doctor from the village, and he stopped by the body
while I went into the house to tell Mr. Tress and Mr.
Tickell,” answered Fowler. “As I knew Mr. Tress
would be a bit heavy at that time of the morning, I
went to Mr. Tickell's room first. And he wasn’t
there!”
The police-inspector, who had followed Fowler's
narrative with approving interest, coughed, shook his
head and smiled. It was evident that he had drawn
his own conclusions from the fact just mentioned by
the valet.
“He wasn’t there,” repeated Fowler, “and his bed
hadn't been slept in. But I noticed one thing at once
—couldn’t help noticing it. He’d washed and shaved
himself before he went off!”
“Washed—shaved!” exclaimed Smith. “What—
during the night?”
“Night, or early morning, sir, whenever it was,”
answered Fowler. “He’d only brought a small suit-
case with him, had Mr. Tickell, and it was lying there
open in his room. His shaving things were on the
dressing-table, and he hadn’t even bothered to clean
the razor. I saw all that in a glance, as you might
say, sir, and I shut the room up and locked it,
and 22
“I hope nobody has interfered with it since?” said
Smith.


PLAIN MURDER 87
The police-inspector held up a key. “They havn't,
sir,” he observed solemnly, “I’ve seen to that. It's
untouched since the time Mr. Fowler saw it.”
“Go on, Fowler,” commanded Smith, “What did
you do next?”
“I roused the footmen, sir, and we went back to the
spinney; I’d decided by that time not to wake Mr.
Tress for a bit. Nurse Palliser came out of Miss
Tress's rooms as I was passing, and I told her what
had occurred. She went to the spinney with us. Of
course we looked about us, but we didn't touch the
body nor do anything until the doctor and the police
came. When they came, a bit later, they took charge.
And I dare say,” concluded Fowler, with a glance at
his companion, “the inspector can tell you the rest bet-
ter than I can.”
The listeners turned silently to the inspector, and
the inspector's demeanour became important.
“I’ve no objection to telling what’s already common
property, gentlemen,” he observed. “But, of course,
I can't at this stage say what the whole of my own de-
ductions and impressions are, though I don't mind in-
dicating them. We found the body at the place, and
in the position described by Mr. Fowler there, and the
doctor said he judged the man had been dead some
hours. At first, we thought it was a case of suicide,
but we soon saw that it wasn’t, because there was no
weapon at hand. A man can’t shoot himself and get
rid of the revolver, and this man had been killed in-
stantaneously. We had the body removed, and I had
the clearing roped off and left a man in charge of it.


88 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
-.
Then the doctor and I examined the body. He can
tell you what he found, and I can tell what I found.
I found nothing! Not a sign of a thing—beyond a
pocket handkerchief and a pair of nail scissors.”
“Well?” remarked Smith calmly. “What next?”
The inspector seemed grieved that his dramatic an-
nouncement had produced no effect.
“Well, there was nothing exactly next, as regards
the body,” he replied, a little grudgingly. “The next
thing was that one of the footmen came to tell me that
a bicycle belonging to Mr. Tress had disappeared dur-
ing the night. And, of course, I saw then how things
were. Naturally! And as a result we’ve raised a hue
and cry after this Mr. Tickell. We ought to be on to
him by night.”
“Ah!” said Smith, rising from his chair, “You
think Tickell is the murderer?”
“I do!” answered the inspector, doggedly. “We
shall swing him!”
Smith nodded quietly. Then he signed to Hextall
and Styler to follow him from the room.
f
r


CHAPTER IX
THE SHAVING-POT
THE barrister led the way into the open village
street, and turned up it in the direction of the gates
of Lynne Court. He was evidently in deep thought,
and neither of his companions interrupted his medita-
tions until he suddenly swung his small figure round
to them.
“Hextall!” he said. “The first thing we must do is
to get on a proper footing. By this time young Tress
must surely be sobered. We will walk up to the
house. You must see him and tell him that learning
of this, and being concerned for his sister's health,
you hurried down and brought a friend with you who
may be of use. In the meantime, you Styler—but
come here, and I’ll give you your instructions.”
He took the clerk aside and held a brief consulta-
tion with him, at the end of which Styler turned back
to the inn. Smith rejoined Hextall; together, the two
walked quickly up to Lynne Court through the pine
woods.
Darrell Tress came hurrying out on the terrace to
meet them. Smith, sizing him up, quickly muttered
an aside to his companion.
“This chap is easy to read,” he said. “Weak—
good-natured—very easily led—naturally, utterly de-
pendent on somebody else. He's as pleased as Punch


90 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
to see us; he knows we shall take responsibility off
his shoulders. I know this type of youngster, and I
should say that the finest thing that ever happened in
his career was when somebody put that bullet through
Kesteven this morning. Hextall!—we must try to
pull this fellow round, and make him a decent mem-
ber of society.”
Darrell's pleasure and relief at sight of Hextall
were obvious enough. He shook hands with more
than necessary warmth, welcoming him as a man who
has been shipwrecked might welcome a rescuer.
“Oh, I say, I’m awfully obliged to you for coming,
doctor!” he burst out, without ceremony, and evident-
ly quite ignorant as to what means had been taken to
bring Hextall there. “It’s such a relief to have some-
body here—I’ve sent for my solicitor and told him
to bring a detective, but they can’t get here just yet.
Of course, the local police are on the job, but 92
“This is my friend, Mr. John Smith, of the Middle
Temple,” said Hextall, drawing Smith forward.
“Mr. Smith is interested in matters of this sort, and
he may be useful to you.”
Darrell shook hands with Smith in the same effu-
sive fashion.
“It’s tremendously good of you!” he protested.
“I’m no end obliged. Of course, we're all at sixes
and sevens here, but the police have already cir-
culated reports about that chap Tickell, so—”
“You think that Tickell shot Kesteven?” inter-
rupted Smith.


THE SHAVING POT 91
“Why, certainly I do!” answered Darrell. “Who
else? You see, I know scarcely anything about Tic-
kell—he's only a chap that I’d seen on race-courses,
and so on—Kesteven introduced him—and some-
times he'd been at my flat, playing cards. I'm afraid
I’ve been an awful ass, don't you know, about that
sort of thing, but this has given me a shock, by gad!
and I’ll chuck it, I will indeed, by gad! and reform,
and so on, you know. And, I say, I’ve not told the
police yet, but do you know, Kesteven had a lot of
money on him last night—piles!—and they tell me
that when they searched him this morning his pockets
were empty, by George—empty! You see, Hextall,
we'd been over to Boulogne for a day or two, Kest-
even and I, and we had a most tremendous run of luck
—extraordinary!—and we brought a lot of money
back with us, and Kesteven, last night, had both mine
and his in his pockets—gad!—there'd be five or six
thousand pounds in bank-notes, French and English.
And we picked up Tickell at Brighton, where we stop-
ped to dine, and he came on with us here, and, by
George! the scoundrel killed poor old Kesteven for
that coin, I’ll swear he did! But he can’t have got
very far, can he? and surely somebody'll lay hands
on him—and won't you come and see the place where
he shot him, by George!—the mean hound!”
Hextall left Smith to accompany the young master
of Lynne Court and went into the house and straight
. Paquita's room. Outside there he met Nurse Pal-
1Ser.
“Anything to tell me?” he asked, taking her aside.


92 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Nothing, sir,” she answered readily. “Miss Tress
had a very good night, and she's very well this morn-
ing. Of course, she never knew anything about this
affair until we told her. She was shocked at first,
but she seems in quite good spirits now.”
Hextall heard this with immense relief, and he
lingered a moment.
“Did you hear anything of this business?” he
asked. “Any shot, for instance?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “We had a very quiet
night. Miss Tress was disturbed when she heard that
the three gentlemen had come, but she quietened down
when Fowler told her that Mr. Tress was sound asleep
in bed. Nurse Hicks slept in the little drawing-room
next to Miss Tress, and she says they had a particu-
larly good night—Miss Tress slept right through it.”
“That’s good,” said Hextall. “I shall tell her that
she must remain in her own rooms to-day; she mustn't
go down stairs at all. See to that.”
Then he went into Paquita's sitting-room—to find
her at an open window stitching busily at some fancy
work. She sprang up with a glad cry as he entered
and came hastily to meet him, and Hextall could not
forbear holding her hand rather longer than was pro-
fessionally necessary.
“Here already!” she exclaimed. “But I have only
just wired to you.”
“I heard the news first thing this morning and came
at once,” said Hextall, taking her back to her chair.
“I was afraid—for you.”
a


THE SHAVING POT 93
Paquita folded her hands in her lay and shook her
head. -
“I—I don't quite know what I think,” she said
thoughtfully. “I can’t truthfully say I'm sorry. I
suppose I am, in one way, poor man. But—was it
very wrong? When they told me that he was dead,
I—I felt such a tremendous sense of relief. You
don't know—not even you, though I’ve told you so
much—what a nightmare that man had been. I know
he was literally ruining Darrell, body and soul! And
Darrell's been in here this morning, and he's fearfully
repentant about everything, and he says it’s given him
a shock, and pulled him up, and he's sworn faithfully
that he'll reform and be—oh, ever so good—and
you’ll tell me how to help, won't you?” she wound
up, with a look of appeal that made Hextall more in
love with her than ever. “I’m sure he means it—this
time.”
“I’ll help,” said Hextall. “There's the chief ob-
stacle gone, anyway.”
“Yes,” she answered. “It-it seems almost provi-
dential, doesn’t it? Do you remember what I said to
you when I came to your house that night?—that I’d
more than once felt that I could shoot him? Well,
isn't it strange?—last night I dreamt that I did shoot
him—somewhere in a wood—it was all confused and
queer—but I recollect vividly that I did shoot him,
and saw him fall, and his face after he fell—”
“Don’t recall it!” said Hextall, peremptorily.
“That came from your thinking so much about all
these things. Put them out of your mind, now.”


94. LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Yes,” she promised, “I will. But wasn't it strange
that I should dream that on the very night that he was
shot? I suppose I’d gone to sleep thinking about him
being in the house. Do you think they will catch that
dreadful man who shot him? Oh, you can’t think
how thankful I am!—Darrell has promised me sol-
emnly—most solemnly!—that he’ll never have any
more of that sort here again. He's going to make a
clear sweep of all that sort of thing, and he thinks
he'll turn to politics and go into Parliament instead.”
Hextall let Paquita talk until he thought that she
had talked enough. He gave strict orders as to her
doings for that day, delighted her by telling her that
he was not returning to town until late in the evening,
and possibly not until next day, and left her in charge
of the nurses. Going through the house on his way to
rejoin Smith, he encountered the boy Ronnie and his
governess and stopped to speak to them. But he gave
little more than a seeming attention to the child; what
he wanted was a good look at Miss Brock, in view of
what Paquita had told him the previous day. Miss
Brock, however, was not inclined to linger, and she
drew back into the shadow of the somewhat gloomy
corridor in which they met. But Hextall's sharp, pro-
fessional eye saw dark circles under Miss Brock's
eyes, and drawn lines about her mouth, and in spite of
the gloom, the pallor on her cheeks was very apparent,
and he drew his own conclusions.
“That girl knows something,” he thought, as he left
the house and went off to find Smith. “She looks
the sort, too, to keep her knowledge to herself. Odd!


THE SHAVING POT 95
—if Kesteven was with Tress at Boulogne, how could
the boy have seen him here, talking to the governess,
that night? He must have been mistaken—and yet
Paquita seemed to have no doubt that he had seen
them together. However, that’s a matter that can be
quickly cleared up—when it's necessary.”
He found Darrell and Smith in the spinney, at the
scene of the murder. There was nothing to show that
any tragedy had taken place at the spot—a small
clearing in the heart of the pine wood, in the centre
of which stood a rustic seat. There were no signs
of any struggle, no trampling of the grass, nothing
had been left there. But round the clearing the police
had placed a rope, and a constable was on guard to
prevent trespass. Smith shook his head as Hextall
came up.
“Nothing to see there,” he said. “Nothing! Not a
mark—except a little blood on a few blades of grass.
It's an odd thing, though, seeing how near this spot
is to the house, that nobody heard the shot. I make it
to be about two hundred yards from here to the west
wing--now, the sound of a revolver fired in the sil-
ence of the night would carry a lot further than that.
And that makes me wonder if Kesteven was really
shot here, or if he was brought here after he was
killed. That man there,” he continued, indicating the
constable, “has been describing the position in which
the body was lying when they found it, and accord-
ing to my theories, which are based on evidence, that
position was not exactly consistent with sudden, in-
stantaneous death. A man shot through the brain


96 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
falls in a certain way which I will explain to you
later—now, this body had not fallen in that way. But
we’ll go into all that at another time; I see the police.
inspector there, and I’d like to get that key from him
and have a look at the room in which this man Tickell
left his things.”
The police-inspector was only too willing to play
cicerone to the bed-room which Fowler had carefully
locked up, but he insisted that nothing should be
touched until his own superiors from the county town
and the expected detective from London had made
their own examination.
“Everything is just as we found it, gentlemen,” he
said, as he ushered Hextall and Smith into the room.
“And Mr. Fowler assures me that nothing had been
interfered with up to then—it was exactly as the man
left it. And he didn’t leave much, as you can see.”
Hextall certainly saw little. On a stand at the foot
of the bed lay a small suit-case, thrown open. It ap-
peared to contain nothing more than linen and toilet
articles. On the dressing-table lav a razor—un-
cleaned since using; near it was a china shaving-pot.
Into this Smith peered curiously, and he suddenly
lifted his round face and smiled.
“That’s what I wanted to know!” he said. “It’s
rather illuminating. The gentleman left his mous-
tache behind him. See?”
“You mustn't touch anything, sir!” said the in-
spector warningly. “Not an article must be moved,
Or 22


THE SHAVING POT 97
“We’re not going to touch as much as a pin, my
friend,” said Smith soothingly. “People who can use
their eyes don’t need to finger things. Do you see,
Hextall? Tickell evidently shaved off his moustache
—a small black one—and washed the individual
hairs off the razor into this shaving-pot. However,
you also see that he left a few sticking to the razor—
and I see a few more on that towel. Now what do you
deduce from that, officer?” he went on, turning with
an arch smile to the inspector. “Of course, you'd
notice it, eh?”
“No, I hadn’t particularly noticed that,” answered
the inspector. “But my own common sense told me
that if a man comes to this room and shaves himself
after committing a murder, he goes away clean-
shaven. And it’s for a clean-shaven man that we’ve
sent out our inquires. They all forget some detail,
these chaps—this fellow did for himself when he
left that shaving-tackle lying about.”
“You think he shaved himself after he shot his
man?” said Smith innocently.
The inspector did not trouble to answer that ques-
tion, except with a look. He showed the two visitors
out, locked the door again, and went off. And Smith,
when he was out of sight, drew Hextall into the deep
window-place.
“I did finger something after all, though neither
of you noticed it,” he said. “Look here!”
He held up to his companion's gaze a tiny scrap
of some filmy white stuff, which looked to Hextall to
be no more than a bit of rag. -


CHAPTER X
A LADY COMES: A LADY GOES
“Do you know what that is?” asked Smith, with a
sly laugh. “You don't? Then I'll tell you. It’s a bit
of gauze that has formed the wrapping of a false
moustache. Mr. Maurice Tickell, whoever he may
be, went away from here, not clean-shaven, as our
worthy official friend yonder imagines, but wearing
an adornment on the upper lip of a different shape
and of a slightly different colour to that which usually
characterized it. And that, my dear Hextall, makes
me certain that the Tickell individual did not murder
John Kesteven, doesn’t know who did murder him, and
is in ignorance at this moment—unless some early
edition of the afternoon papers has informed him—
that Kesteven's is dead. Do you follow that?”
“My mind is not quite as subtle as yours, Smith,”
answered Hextall. “I don't!”
“More than one wise man has told us that prob-
ability is the guide of life,” remarked Smith. “I
attach much importance in all these cases to what is
probable I am very sceptical, impatient even, of
what is improbable. Now, our friend the police-in-
spector has formed the theory, based on what Tress
has told him about Kesteven having all that money on
his person, that Tickell lured Kesteven out into the
grounds, shot him dead two hundred yards away from


A LADY COMES: A LADY GOES 99
the house, in which some sixteen or twenty persons
were then in bed, some of them no doubt asleep, but
some of them awake or light sleepers, robbed his vic-
tim, came back to the house, shaved off his moustache,
appropriated a bicyle, and vanished. Bosh!”
“And what do you think happened—in reality?”
asked Hextall.
“I think that Kesteven and Tickell were in all
likelihood hand-in-glove with each other in some
scheme or other, more or less nefarious and question-
able. I think they sat up late purposely, discussing
their business. I think that business, whatever it may
have been, necessitated the immediate disappearance
of Tickell, under a slight disguise. Mind you—en
passant—a slight, a very slight disguise, is much more
effectual than an elaborate, over-loaded one. An up-
ward twist to a moustache—the wearing of a slightly
pointed instead of a rounded beard—these are artistic
touches which your adept in make-up knows the value
of. But I pass on—Tickell made that slight altera-
tion in his appearance hurriedly—Kesteven no doubt
being with him. Then Kesteven took him to the room
where the bicycles are kept—there are several there
—Tickell selected one. Kesteven then showed him a
near cut through the grounds and the spinney to the
high-road. And after that Kesteven went—some-
where. There he was shot—and the body was
brought to where it was found. Eh?”
“In that case,” observed Hextall, “the murderer is
somewhere at hand—within a close circle.”


100 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Just so. The murderer is—or was—close at
hand, probably is, just now. Kesteven doubtless
went somewhere—close by—to keep an appointment,
even at that hour, which was probably between twelve
and one o'clock in the morning. And so there are two
lines to take. One Styler is following now—making
himself acquainted with what we may call the ethno-
graphy of this immediate neighborhood—getting to
know who all the people are who live about here and
so on—the other is that which he started on when he'd
had his interview with Fowler at your house—that is,
finding out who Kesteven really was. Of course the
coroner, and his jury, and the police authorities will
want to know who Kesteven was, and all about him.
I don’t think Darrel Tress can tell much—probably
Tickell can, and will tell more.”
“When he's found,” said Hextall.
“Oh!” remarked Smith indiffierently. “Tickell
will be found within forty-eight hours—unless,
indeed, he got clear of the country early this morning,
as he might do. My notion is that Tickell probably
carried away some of the money which Tress says
Kesteven had on him. Whoever Tickell may be, I’m
sorry for him, for he'll probably hang for this—even
as the inspector so kindly prophesied.”
“You think so!—in spite of believing him inno-
cent?” exclaimed Hextall.
“I do! Especially if the gentleman—as is likely
—has a bad record, and a shady character. Take the
circumstances into consideration—as if you were
a British juryman. Look at them carefully —pooh,


A LADY COMES: A LADY GOES 101
Tickell won’t have a cat's chance—not hel He'll
hang, however innocent he may be, on the damning
evidence which the police will bring against him. My
dear fellow, police, officialdom, and the public love
to see the superficial and the obvious successful. In
this case a man hooks it in the dead of night, slightly
disguised, under highly suspicious circumstances,
leaving a murdered man behind him, carrying, prob-
ably, some of that murdered man's money on him—
why, of course he's guilty—who else? “You were
the first person we suspected; therefore, you are
guilty,’ says everybody. “We suspected you at once—
and we don’t want to suspect anybody else!” There-
fore, Tickell will hang.”
Just then a footman came along to announce lunch,
and Hextall and Smith went downstairs—to find Dar-
rell Tress in conversation with a lady whom he pres-
ently introduced as Mrs. Renton, a neighbour. Mrs.
Renton, a pretty, clever-looking woman of apparently
thirty to thirty-five, gave the two strangers a quick,
critical inspection, and fastened on Hextall as the
four sat down to lunch.
“I came round to se if I could be of any use to Miss
Tress,” she said. “Miss Tress tells me that she is in
your hands, Dr. Hextall, so I must apply to you, I sup-
pose? Can I see her?”
Hextall, in virtue of his position as medical ad-
viser, felt himself justified in taking a good look at his
questioner. Mrs. Renton, he decided, was a woman
of some character, evidently shrewd, self-reliant, and
forceful; her smart gown, her obvious self-possession,


102 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
her entire air suggested that she was a thorough woman
of the world. She looked at Hextall with a frank in-
quiry, which somehow managed at the same time to
convey to him that she knew well how things had stood
in that house. And Hextall entered into the free-
masonry of her glance.
“I think so,” he responded. “Providing you don't
talk to Miss Tress too long, and no more than's neces-
sary about the event of this morning—which means—
no more than a mere reference to it.”
“Oh, of course!” exclaimed Mrs. Renton. “I came
to talk to her about anything but that. I dare say we
shall all hear enough about that later on—officially.
The newspapers, you know.”
“Too much!” muttered Darrell. He was evidently
beginning his promised course of reformation; for in
common with his two men guests, he had declined the
champagne which his butler had offered, and was
drinking whiskey and potash-water instead. Hextall
noticed the effect which even this comparatively inno-
cent compound had on him—his hand became
steadier, his eye clearer, and his voice more under
control—and he knew what had led his host to the ex-
cesses of which he had heard so much. Darrell Tress
was evidently of a highly neurotic temperament;
nerves had driven him to drink—and there was time
enough for him to be cured, said Hextall, with a re-
solve to attempt a cure. “Too much,” he repeated,
glancing at the windows of his dining-room. “I’m
expecting to see the place overrun with reporters be-
y’.



A LADY COMES: A LADY GOES 103
fore the day's out. Why can’t all these things be kept
quiet?”
“Because we live in an age which is very much con-
cerned about anything that happens on somebody
else's doorstep,” said Smith. “Privacy is impossible
—even if you want to kill your dearest friend.”
Mrs. Renton looked scrutinizingly at Smith, who
sat opposite to her. Smith responded to her gaze with
one of his innocent and bland expressions.
“You think there is no privacy nowadays?” she
asked.
“On the contrary,” replied Smith, “I think there
never was such a time for privacy. This is the age of
privacy. Once upon a time I could not have lunched
with you, for instance, unless I had known who your
grandfather was; nowadays, I am not at all concerned
to know if your mother once took in washing. Pri-
vacy came in when pedigrees went out.”
“You are a gentleman of paradoxical bad habits,”
said Mrs. Renton. “You said just now that privacy
is impossible in this age,”
“Quite so,” replied Smith. “It is my custom to
say one thing at one time and another at another time.
The only man who ever speaks the truth is the man
who keeps up a custom of persistent self-contradic-
tion. Besides, I was not thinking of what you were
thinking—I was thinking, in the first case, of privacy
in doing, in the second, of privacy in being. Do you
see the difference?”


A LADY COMES: A LADY GOES 105
“That!” he remarked in a low voice. “That’s the
chair he—Kesteven—always sat in! Wouldn’t have
any other when he was in here—I’ll have it taken
away.”
“Don't!” said Smith. “At any rate, not now. I'll
sit in it—very good judge of comfortable chairs the
poor man was, too,” he went on, seating himself.
“By the by, now that Mrs. Renton has left us, p_rhaps
we three may talk a little, especially as I may have to
return to town. As Hextall told you, Mr. Tress, I am
greatly interested in criminal matters, and fairly what
I may call learned in them, and if my experience is
al., help to you, you're welcome to it. Now, I sup-
pose you're aware that the coroner will open an in-
quest on Kesteven's body?—probably to-morrow.”
“The police fellows told me that,” answered Dar-
rell. “I suppose I’ll have to go?”
“You’ll certainly have to go, for you’ll be the most
important witness,” replied Smith. “The great thing
that will have to be gone into in this case is—who
really was John Kesteven? I don't suppose you know
—but you know something. Don't tell us now what
you know or don’t know—they'll get all that out of
you. But there is one question which I’d like to ask
you,” continued Smith, to whom Hextall had during
the ride down confided the story about Ronnie's vision
of Miss Brock and Kesteven, “and it's this—you told
us that you and Kesteven had been over to Boulogne
during the past few days. Well—was Kesteven with
you the whole of that time?”


A LADY COMES: A LADY GOES 107
Hextall and Smith jumped to their feet with a
glance at each other. And Smith's glance was one
of warning.
“That's your little brother's governess?” he asked,
turning to Darrell. “You don’t mean that she has
really disappeared—unaccountably?”
“They can’t find her anywhere about the place, any-
how,” replied Darrell. “She came in from a walk
with Ronnie at twelve o’clock, handed him over to a
groom who's teaching him to ride a pony, went up to
her own room, and has never been seen since. The
servants have been seeking her everywhere, and can’t
find her. You see, she never came down when dinner
was served for her and Ronnie, and the footman who
went up to her door couldn't get any reply. In fact,
the door of the room is locked now, but the house-
keeper has been in through the window, which opens
on balcony. And she tells Mountain that the room's
all in confusion. I say!—suppose we go and have a
look at it?”
He led the way upstairs, and Hextall and Smith
followed. Smith jogged his friend’s arm.
“I knew there'd be a plenitude of mystery down
here,” he muttered. “Now, if that ferret-like clerk
of mine is only half as busy as I am, Hextall, we shall
have plenty to talk about when to-day's done.”


CHAPTER XI
THE CABBAGE PLANTER
STYLER, after parting company with his master at the
gates of Lynne Court, went back to the inn. As he
approached it he saw Fowler and the police-inspector
leave it and stroll down the village street; the land-
lord, following them out, stood in the porch, staring
about him as he reflectively scratched his bare arms.
He recognized the clerk as one of the party which had
just held a conference in his private parlour, and he
nodded affably. Styler responded with cordiality; a
village landlord was just the sort of man he wanted
at that moment.
“If there's one thing in the world that I fancy at
this particular juncture,” remarked Styler, “it’s a tan-
kard of that cool ale that you’ve of course got in your
cellar. How are you feeling yourself in that way?”
The landlord recognized a sociable and affable
spirit, and showed Styler back into the room which he
had left ten minutes before. He fetched a foaming
jug of ale and two glasses, and nudged his customer
solemnly.
“Come down about this affair at the Court, I
reckon?” he said eyeing Styler's sharp countenance.
“Law gentleman, no doubt?”
“Something of that sort,” answered Styler, as he
rolled a cigarette. “Queer business, ain't it?”


THE CABBAGE PLANTER 109
“Ah!” agreed the landlord. “You’re right! A
business as'll not be got to the bottom of in a hurry.
At least, that’s what I think from what I’ve heard of
it from the inspector and Mr. Fowler yonder. Maybe
you know more?”
“No more than you do,” replied Styler.
The landlord dropped into a chair and relighted
the stump of a cigar. He was evidently disposed to
talk, and Styler was pleased to see it.
“Looks like as if this feller as rode off in the night
done it,” observed the landlord. “Must ha'done it—
nobody else for it.”
“It couldn’t have been poachers now, could it?”
suggested Styler.
The landlord smiled derisively.
“We ain’t none hereabouts!” he remarked.
“Poachers!—there's nought to poach—on the Tress's
property, anyway. “Tain't a game estate, that—old
Mr. Tress, the uncle, what had it before this young
gentleman, he wasn't one for sport—all his tastes was
for flowers, and rare plants and trees, and such-like.
Fine gardens and grounds, and a well-laid-out park,
but not much in the game line—few partridges, and
a hare or two, but naught worth what you’d call a
proper poacher's attention. No, sir—that there man
wasn’t put an end to by any of our folk.”
“I expect you know everybody in the place?” ob-
served Styler. “Not so many to know, is there?”
“I know every man Jack of 'em in Lynne,” an-
swered the landlord. “And every woman and child,
too. It's a small place, as you say—we've no


110 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
strangers here. That is, 'cepting a young widow lady
as took the Warren not so long since, and an old gent
as has just come down to a furnished cottage up in the
woods. Them's the only two—Mrs. Renton the young
widow’s name is, and the old chap's called Mr. Pegge
—that wasn't born and bred here. And you wouldn't
look to a fine young widow lady, nor yet to an old
gentleman, to go about in our woods at night with
revolvers, a-shooting of folks, would you now? No,
sir, 'tain't no Lynne folks as done that murder!—if
it ain't him—Tickell—as they’re after, then it is a
mystery, and no error!”
“To be sure,” said Styler heartily. “Young widow
you say? Pretty woman?”
“Uncommon,” replied the landlord. “Fine woman
—a lady. No great establishment, you understand,
but enough—two or three maids and a page-boy.”
“It’s a queer thing,” observed Styler, insinuating
with a look that he was quite sure that the landlord
was a man of the world, “and I dare say you’ve
noticed it, that these young widows invariably bury
themselves in what you might call the truly rural—
where there is nobody that they could make a second
attempt with, as it were. Queer, ain't it?”
“Well, I don’t know,” replied the landlord sagac-
iously. “You see, that’s when the first year or so’s
on; they like to get where it's shady, to reflect on
things. But I’ll tell you what,” he continued, with a
wink, “I’ve always noticed that a period of reflection
like that gives 'em an appetite for a second husband
—yes!”


THE CABBAGE PLANTER lll
“This lady making any attempt that way?” asked
Styler.
“Nay, I can’t say that we’ve noticed aught,” an-
swered the landlord. “She’s a quietish sort—spends
her time a good deal in the garden and such-like.
We've no marrying gentleman about here, neither;
it's a poor country for that. Of course, there's Mr.
‘Tress—but this here Mrs. Renton is a bit too old for
him—she's the sort that 'ud do well for a middle-aged
gentleman. You understand—something like that
guv'nor of yours that was in here just now.”
“Ah!” said Styler. “No doubt. I understand what
you mean. Look well at the head of a rich man's
table, eh? I'll tell him to keep his eyes open.”
“Law gentleman, that, I reckon?” observed the
landlord inquisitively. “I thought as much when I see
you drive up to the door. I said to my missis, “One
of these here lawyers,” I says. “There’ll be a deal o'
that sort down here over this affair.’ Well, it’s an ill
wind that blows nobody some good, as they say, and I
expect this do ’ll put money in pockets like yours,
young man?”
“Not if I sit here all the morning,” answered Sty-
ler. He drank off his ale, remarked that he should
look in a bit later for a mouthful of lunch, and went
out into the village. The folk who saw him there
might have fancied that he had no aim or object, for
he did no more than look into the windows of the
two or three shops, stroll round the yew-shaded
churchyard, and linger by the open door of the school,
presumably to listen to the hum of juvenile voices


112 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
within. But Styler had an object of his own, and he
pursued it in his own fashion. He had already found
out that in that small community there were only two
persons whose antecedents were not common property
—an old gentleman and a young lady; he meant to
have a look at both of them. And having kept his
eyes open as he strolled around, and duly noticed,
from a slight eminence by the churchyard, that in the
woodlands near Lynne Court there stood one largish
house and one smallish one, he betook himself to
those woodlands by various narrow lanes and paths.
For intuition and deduction—both strong qualities
with Styler—told him that the large house must be
the Warren, and the small one the furnished cottage,
both referred to by the landlord of the Lynne Arms,
and he desired to take closer look at them and to see
their inmates. All this was part of his—and of John
Smith's—plan. If something unusual has occurred
in a district, the first thing to do is to make yourself
acquainted with the folk who live in that district, and
to consider whether they are likely or not to have had
any concern with what has happened—for, as Styler
never wearied of telling himself, you never know
who anybody is until you have turned them inside-out,
and you cannot be too careful about small details.
His ears had pricked on hearing of this young widow
and this old gentleman—they, after all, were not
native-born of Lynne, and they must be seen to.
He found the Warren to be of an eminently com-
monplace, snug, thoroughly respectable nature. It
was a modern, stone-built house—one of those new-


THE CABBAGE PLANTER I13
fashioned erections now so fashionable in the southern
counties, evidently built by some person who had de-
signed it for a resort after a retirement from the pur-
suit of a highly successful business. It had many
gables and more chimneys, and odd windows, and
nooks and corners, a timbered front, and much mural
ornamentation of ivy and clematis and Virginia
creeper; its lawns were trim and its gardens formal;
it was just the sort of place in which you would expect
to find the course of life run with great smoothness,
and have a perfectly-cooked dinner served up punc-
tually at seven-thirty to the minute. A neat maid was
talking to the butcher's boy at a side-gate as Styler
passed; he knew by the dilated eyes of both that their
subject of conversation was the event of the night.
But of the maid’s mistress he saw nothing at that time.
The other object of his attention—the cottage—was
of a quite different nature to the Warren. It stood
literally in the woods, in a clearing, and Styler, who
had drawn near to it by boldly forsaking the trodden
ways and betaking himself, Indian fashion, to the
thickets, was able to approach it under cover of the
fresh, luxuriant foliage which a week of warm spring
weather had brought into being. He heard vocal
sounds—gentle, pastoral sounds—as he crept up be-
hind a privet hedge which ringed in the cottage-
garden. And taking good care to make no sound
himself, he peered through the interstices of the
glossy leafage, and saw, not many yards away, an
elderly gentleman, who was engaged in planting cab-


THE CABBAGE PLANTER 115
door! Wonderful, I call it!—I reckon this old party
is a philosopher.”
He turned his attention from the old party to the
old party's cottage. It was a nice little place, a sort of
bungalow, half brick, half plaster, with a verandah
under projecting eaves and a pergola of rambler roses
running from the door to the gate. Through an open
window Styler got a glimpse of a pleasant interior—
pictures, books, a table laid with a white cloth, of sil-
ver and glass gleaming on the linen. And just as he
had seen that, a woman of the char-lady variety came
to the door and called to the cabbage-planter.
“Your dinner's ready, Mr. Pegge,” she announced.
“Shall I draw some ale, sir?”
“An excellent suggestion, Mrs. Ridd,” replied Mr.
Pegge, straightening himself and moving off to the
cottage. “A jug full, ma'am—with a fine head on
it, if you please.” -
The good gentleman had only just got into his door-
way when Styler saw something which interested him
much more than anything he had seen up to that time.
Just within the hedgerow, exactly opposite the spot
whereon he was kneeling with his eye to a convenient
break in the foliage, was a garden roller. On that
garden roller Mr. Pegge had carelessly cast his jac-
ket. And from the inside pocket of the jacket pro-
jected a well-worn leather pocket-book, evidently full
of papers. ---
“Egad!—what a find! What a-a truly extra
chance!” exclaimed Styler in fervent and ecstatic
tones—carefully muffled. “Crikey!—this is luck.”


lló LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
Nothing could have prevented Styler from examin-
ing that pocket-book—under the circumstances,
neither honour, nor nicety, nor a sense of shame—
nothing! He waited until he had seen Mr. Pegge sit
down to the white table and set to work on his dinner;
then, one eye on him and the other on everything else,
he carefully put an arm through the leaves and
drew the pocket-book to him. And making sure that
its owner ate and drank without thought of what
was going on at the end of his peaceful garden,
Styler rapidly but surely went through the papers
and contents of that book with the celerity of a
bank clerk counting out notes. His face assumed all
sorts of expresions as he made this examination, and
when at last he carefully restored the book to its
place, he muttered a word or two.
“Good Lord!—so this is where he's put himself,
is it?” he said. “This is a find! Luck?—not half!”
He remained there for some time, for he wanted to
see Mr. Pegge's frontal presentment. At last Mr.
Pegge finished his dinner, came out on the verandah,
took a lounge chair, and lighted a cigar. Then Styler
saw him: a quiet-looking, grey-bearded old man.
“Good Lord!” mused Styler. “So that's him as he
is nowadays, is it? Well—well!” -
He lay hid motionless until Mr. Pegge dropped
asleep over his cigar; then he edged his way out of
the woodlands and went back to the inn. There he ate
bread and cheese, and drank ale, and discussed mur-
ders with the landlord, and afterwards hung about the


CHAPTER XII
MEN OF MYSTERY
SMITH and Hextall spent that night as Darrell Tress's
guests. And from the time that Smith returned from
his short visit to the village until next morning he
made no reference to Kesteven's death. Instead he
proceeded to cultivate his young host. He proposed a
walk round the estate; he kept Darrell's tongue at
work on subjects connected with it; at dinner he
talked to him about sport and amazed Hextall by his
knowledge of racing matters. After dinned he played
billiards with him. Darrell Tress went to bed that
night in better condition than had been the case for
months, and Fowler, coming to Hetaxll's room to see
if he could do anything for him, made a remark to
that effect.
“That friend of yours has done our young master
all the good in the world, sir,” he said. “That's what
he wants—a bit of better sort of company instead of
that gambling and drinking lot. He's like a new man
to-night, and it’s a good job, for I reckon he’ll want
all his wits about him at this inquest to-morrow.”
Hextall was looking forward to the inquest with
mingled anxiety and curiosity. The curiosity was
natural; for the anxiety he could not account. Dar-
rell was anxious, too; it was plain that he had no taste
for telling the public anything of his relations with


MEN OF MYSTERY 119
Kesteven. His own solicitor, who arrived from Lon-
don early in the morning, gave him the same advice
that Smith had already impressed upon him—to tell
all he knew and keep nothing back. And to him, as
to Smith, he made the same answer—he knew next to
nothing.
The village schoolroom, in which the coroner and
his twelve good men and true sat to inquire into the
circumstances of the death of John Kesteven, was
packed to its last inch of holding capacity when the
party from Lynne Court went down to it. Not only
was it filled, but the schoolyard outside was filled with
an excited and speculative crowd. The news of the
extraordinary circumstances of the case had been
widely spread, and people had come from far and
near to glean at first hand any fresh tidings as to the
identity of Kesteven, the hue and cry after Tickell,
and the strange disappearance of the governess. Dar-
rell Tress shrank from the rude inquisitiveness of the
people in the schoolyard, and was obviously nervous
about facing the crowded ranks in the school itself.
He was glad to slip into the seats which a police con-
table had kept for him and his friends, and it became
plain to his companions that the prospect of giving
evidence was distressing him greatly. He looked ner-
vously at the coroner, at the legal gentlemen who
represented the authorities, at the stolid faces of the
jurymen; he might have been a prisoner in the dock
rather than a witness who, after all, had only got to
tell what he knew. And Hextall, for one, began to


MEN OF MYSTERY 121
or unofficial. Gossip and common report had already
made them familiar with these facts. The evidence
of Fowler and of the police-inspector was more pro-
ductive of thrills. The valet told how he had seen
Kesteven and Tickell sitting and smoking and chat-
ting, evidently in the most amicable fashion, late at
night; how he and Mountain had been called to the
clearing in the spinney early next morning, and how
he had found Tickell's room unoccupied and had dis-
covered immediately afterwards that one of his mas-
ter's bicycles had disappeared. The inspector spoke
as to his searching of the dead man's clothing: there
was nothing on it, he said, but a handkerchief and a
pair of nail scissors. Two or three of the jurymen,
good, honest, stolid-faced countrymen, breathed hard
and shook their heads when they heard that, and
Smith whispered to Hextall that their minds were
made up already and would never be changed—mur-
der for the sake of robbery was their notion, sure,
certain, ineradicable.
Darrell Tress stood up to give evidence. He was
palpably nervous and shaky, and the keen-faced,
sharp-eyed legal gentleman who had come down from
London, to conduct the case on behalf of the Treasury,
looked at him a little curiously, as if wondering why
any man should be timorous about so simple a mat-
ter. He purposely put two or three formal interroga-
tions to the witness in order to give him confidence.
Then, swiftly and surely, he came to the point with a
direct question.


122 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“You have seen the body of the man into the cir-
cumstances of whose death this inquiry is being held,
Mr. Tress, I believe?” he asked.
“I saw it yesterday,” answered Darrell.
“Whose body is it?” inquired the legal gentleman
sharply.
Darrell stared at his interrogator, then at the
coroner, then at the interrogator again.
“Kesteven's,” he replied at last. “John Kesteven's,
of course!” -
“The body of John Kesteven. Who was John Kest-
even? You say ‘of course,” so, of course, you know?”
“I only know,” answered Darrell slowly, “that I
knew him as John Kesteven. That’s what he called
himself.” *
“Who was he?”
“I—don't know that.”
“Where did he live?”
Darrell's face brightened at that question.
“Since I knew him, he lived with me,” he replied
readily. s
“Where did he live before that? Where was he
living when you first knew him?”
Darrell shook his head.
“I don’t know at all,” he answered. “I never heard
him say.”
“Am I to understand that you took this man who
called himself John Kesteven straight into your house
or houses without knowing anything about his antece-
dents?”
“Oh, well, I knew something, of course!”
.


MEN OF MYSTERY 123
“What did you know?”
“Well, I knew he was a good sort—a good pal–
and so on,” said Darrell lamely. “I—you see, I
didn't ask him anything. He and I took to each other,
you know.”
“I see. And so you took him in—an absolute
stranger—to be a member of your family?”
“No, I didn't!” growled Darrell suddenly showing
signs of restiveness. “I asked him to stop a bit—and
he stopped on.”
“I see!—Now, Mr. Tress, where and when did you
first meet John Kesteven?”
* “At a hotel at Reading—last winter.”
“How did you meet him? Somebody introduce
you?”
“No. It was when I went, alone, to Newbury
Steeplechases. I stopped at Reading, and he was at
the same hotel. He spoke to me in the billiard-room
that night, and next day we went to the races together.
We got on very well, you know, and I asked him to
my flat in London.”
“Did he tell you nothing about himself, who or
what he was, where he came from? Think!”
“Oh, well, yes, he did tell me something,” replied
Darrell suddenly, after a pause. “He said he’d just
come from the West Coast of Africa, and he’d been
out there for several years.”
“Did he tell you in what capacity he’d been there?”
“I think he’d been having a deal in-something.
I forget what. I wasn’t interested.”


124 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“What sort of condition was he in? Good? Bad?
Come now, Mr. Tress; was he well dressed? Had he
money in his pocket? Had he plenty of belongings
with him in the shape of wardrobe and so on? You
must remember.”
“He hadn’t much in the way of clothes.” answered
Darrell simply, “because he'd only just got back to
England.”
“You no doubt introduced him to your own
tailor?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Let me ask you a very direct question—I'm
obliged to ask it. Did you pay the bills he incurred
in that way?”
“No, I didn't. He paid them himself. They were
sent in to me—but Kesteven paid them.”
“Then he had money?”
“He’d always plenty of money from the time I
knew him.”
“Did he get any of that money from you? Now,
just let your memory go back. Did he borrow or win
any money from you on the very first occasion of your
meeting—that night at Reading?”
“Not borrow. He won something—not much—at
cards. And a bit at billiards—a trifle. We were
playing billiards all the evening, and we played cards
in my room for an hour of two later on.”
“You say—not much. Now, how much?”
“Oh—I don’t know! Perhaps a couple of hundred.
And he won a lot of money next day at the races.”


MEN OF MYSTERY 125
“So he was a card-player and a backer of horses?
I suppose you and he played cards a great deal, later
on?”
“Yes.”
“Did you lose a great deal to him?”
“Not exactly to him. Simetimes I won from him.”
“I put it to you that from the time you first knew
him until now you lost a lot of money to this man?”
“No, I didn't! We played cards a good deal—with
other men—but I never lost a lot of money. I'm
extraordinarily lucky at cards. Of course I lost some-
times.”
The questioner paused, looked at his notes, and
went off on another track.
“This man whom you knew as Kesteven lived with
you from the time you made his acquaintance until
the time of his death—either at your flat in London,
or at your house here at Lynne Court?”
“Yes.”
“Did he never tell you more of his antecedents, his
history, his family?”
“No–I never asked him anything? It wasn't my
affair—I wasn't interested in that.”
“You and he got on very well together?”
“We got on all right,” replied Darrell. He was
not nervous any longer, but he was getting restive and
sullen under the questioning, and he began to look
at his questioner with glances that boded no good.
“Very well. Now we come to recent events. Some
davs ago you and this man went to Boulogne together,
and there you gambled and had good luck?”


126 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Extraordinary luck!”
“You came back to Folkstone the afternoon before
Kesteven's death, and motored home, I think, stopping
at Brighton to dine, and I believe Kesteven carried
all your winnings on him?”
“Yes. Five or six thousand pounds—in French
and English notes,” replied Darrell impatiently.
“And he had them on him when I left him and Tickell
that night. I could tell you all I know in two minutes
if you'd let me tell you in my own way!” he suddenly
burst out. “I don’t understand this questioning.”
“A little patience, Mr. Tress,” said the questioner
soothingly. “I understand that you met Mr. Tickell
at Brighton and brought him on with you. That is
so? Now, who is Mr. Tickell?”
“I don’t know!”
“What do you know of Mr. Tickell? Tell it in
you own way.”
“All I know of Tickell is that he's a chap who used
to come with Kesteven to my flat to play cards now
and then, and that I’ve seen him once or twice at race-
courses,” answered Darrell. “I know nothing more
about him in any way.”
“You don’t know who he is, what he is, where he
lives—”
A sudden commotion at the door of the schoolroom
caused the legal gentleman to pause. A constable
came through the crowd, holding a buff envelope
above the heads of the people. He handed it across
the table to the legal gentleman, who tore it open, read
the contents, and turned to the coroner.


CHAPTER XIII
THE ANNOTATED CHART
AMIDST the buzz of excited exclamation which ran
round the crowded room the telegram was passed
from hand to hand amongst those sitting at the table,
and presently Smith and Hextall bent over it together.
“From the police-inspector at Lynchfield,” mut-
tered Smith. “Lynchfield?—ah, that's on the
Hampshire border, on the way to Southhampton.
‘Man answering description of Tickell is lying un-
conscious from bicycle accident at cottage near here.
Send some one to identify.” Ah!—you see, Hextall,
he's been making his way to Southhampton to get out
of the country. Now what are these fellows about?”
The legal gentleman from London, the coroner, the
foreman of the jury, and a police-superintendent were
whispering together at the end of the table. Presently
the coroner looked up.
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I think we
had better adjourn until this day week. It is very
probable, gentlemen, that much more important
evidence will be placed before you.”
The excited audience made its way out of the room
to swell the throng gathered in the schoolyard, and
the officials and witnesses left behind formed groups
and began to talk. And Darrell Tress came up to


THE ANNOTATED CHART 129
Smith and Hextall, looking more nervous and
alarmed than ever.
“I say—I say!” he exclaimed. “Do—do, you
really think that is Tickell—do you?”
The police-superintendent, bustling forward, over-
heard Darrell’s words.
“We want you to go along with us, Mr. Tress,” he
said. “I suppose plenty of your servants could iden-
tify him, but it will be far better if you go yourself.
I've my car outside, and I and the inspector are going
at once. How soon can you be ready?”
Darrell looked at his two companions. It was plain
enough that he had no taste for this expedition, and
once more Hextall felt himself vaguely puzzled and
concerned by his attitude and behaviour. But Smith
took Darrell by the arm and led him to the door.
“Your car's outside, too, Tress,” he said. “Come
along—Hextall and I are going with you. How
long,” he added, turning to the superintendent, “how
long will it take us to get to Lynchfield?”
“Lynchfield? Oh–a little over an hour.” an-
swered the superintendent, “It’s about twenty miles
across country.”
The two cars, the police officials in one, Darrell and
his two companions in the other, sped off through the
excited crowd which had gathered in the village street.
Darrell shrank away from the prying eyes and leaned
back in the car, wiping his forehead.
“I wish to God I’d never seen Kesteven, nor Tickell,
nor any of the infernal crew!” he growled as they got
clear of the village and took the road which led across


130 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
the hills towards the Hampshire border. “And I wish
Tickell had got clear away, so I do, by gad! I do,
indeed, so that I couldn't be bothered with all this
infernal business. And, by gad! as soon as you’ll
let her go, Hextall, I'll take Paquita and the young-
ster, and we'll go abroad somewhere—Egypt, or
India, or somewhere—and keep out of the way until
it’s all over.”
“Bad time of the year, Tress, for either Egypt or
India,” remarked Smith coolly. “And I'm afraid
you’ll be wanted during Tickell's trial. You'll be
about the most important witness they'll have you
know.”
Darrell showed renewed signs of temper and im-
patience, and Hextall, who saw that his nerves were
seriously upset, hastened to soothe him.
“You don't know that there’ll be any trial, Smith,”
he said with a meaning glare at the barrister. “You’ve
got to commit a man for trial, I believe, and Tickell
hasn’t even been before a bench of magistrates yet.
Besides that, if Tickell's had a bad accident, he
mayn’t recover. We might find him dead.”
Darrell started in his seat, and snapped out an ex-
clamation which Hextall knew to be genuine enough.
“By gad! I wish he may be dead!” he said. “It
would be the best news I’ve heard since—since yester-
day. There'd be an end of all this, then. Do you
think it's likely?” he went on, turning eagerly to Hex-
tall. “Do you, really?”
“I don't know whether it's likely or unlikely,” an-
swered Hextall, again conscious of a vague uneasiness
º
.


THE ANNOTATED CHART 13].
raised by Darrell's strange manner. “But the prob-
ability is that he met with the accident referred to
in the telegram at some time yesterday morning, and
if he's been unconscious for twenty-four hours he's
badly hurt.”
The two cars went on, up hill, down dale, across
the hills, until just as noon struck, they pulled up
before a police-station in the wide street of a pleasant
little market town, which stood in the midst of a
lovely, much-wooded country. A couple of officials
came out and exchanged greetings with the police
from Lynne, and Darrell and his companions left
their car and went over to them. The Lynchfield
superintendent had already begun his story when his
confrère from Lynne interrupted him.
“Stop a bit,” he said. “This is Mr. Tress, of Lynne
Court, and these gentlemen are his friends. Tell him
what you were going to say; they’re all concerned.”
“There's not such a lot to tell,” remarked the local
superintendent. “Of course we heard from your
people first thing yesterday morning, giving a descrip-
tion of this man, and we kept a smart look-out in our
district all yesterday, because, you see, we're between
you and Portsmouth and Southampton, and we
thought he might be making for the coast. However,
we never heard nor saw anything until about half-past-
seven this morning. Then a labouring man came in
here and told a tale. He's a man who lives in a by-lane
that runs between this road and another high road,
two or three miles out of the town, going west; his is
the only cottage thereabouts. He said that yesterday


132 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
morning, about seven o'clock, after he'd gone to his
work, his wife went up their lane to fetch water from
a spring. I know the place he was talking about;
there's a sharp fall and a sudden twist in that lane,
and near the spring there's a disused quarry. The
woman heard groans coming from the quarry, and she
went there and found the man I wired to you about
—Tickell, dead certain! He'd evidently been thrown
from his bicycle, clean through the railings of this
quarry, and he was badly hurt—sort of half-conscious
when the woman found him. She fetched some water
and brought him round, and after a time she managed
to get him to her cottage. Then he became uncon-
scious, or fainted again, and he was like that, coming
to and then going off again, all day. They’re oldish
people who live at this cottage; there's no one near
them, and the woman didn't know what to do. She
wanted to go for a doctor during the day, but the man
wouldn't let her; he kept assuring her that he would
come round and be all right. He seemed better when
her husband reached home at night, and he said
again that he would be all right if they would let him
rest there until this morning. But when the morning
came round they found him unconscious, and
evidently worse than ever, so the man came in here
for a doctor, and the doctor advised him to call and
tell us. Of course, we immediately thought of Tic-
kell, and we went off to the cottage at once. And
there's no doubt the man is Tickell. He's a lot of that
money on him.”
t
•
.


THE ANNOTATED CHART 133
Darrell Tress started and became very pale. And
Smith broke in with a question which transferred in-
terest to himself.
“How did you know that Tickell had what you call
that money on him?” he asked.
The Lynne inspector answered:
“I’ve circulated a report that Tickell might be in
possession of a large sum of money in French and
English bank-notes,” he said.
“And he has 'em!” continued the local superin-
tendent. “At least, he’s a lot of it. Between three
and four thousand pounds, I should say, in Bank of
England notes—there are no French ones, though.
We searched him. And that’s about all that there is
on him, no papers much beyond a queer sort of map
or chart which we couldn't make out. But we’d bet-
ter go on there—I left two of my men at the cottage,
and there’s a doctor there, too.”
“What did the doctor say?” asked Hextall.
“He said he was very bad, sir—internal injuries
as well as a damaged skull,” answered the superin-
tendent. “They’re doubtful if they’ll be able to move
him to the hospital.”
They all got into their cars again, the Lynchfield
police with their confrères from Lynne, and proceed-
ing through the little town, a couple of miles further
along the high-road, they came to a narrow lane which
turned sharply away from the main road and suddenly
twisted off amongst overhanging trees. There the
police got out of their car, and the whole party went
down the lane on foot.


134 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“It’s a perfect marvel to us that this man should
ever have tried to ride down this lane,” remarked
the Lynchfield superintendent. “You can see for
yourselves, gentlemen, what it’s like—madness to ride
down it. The only thing we can think of that induced
him to do it is that from the road we’ve just left you
can see that other road there in the valley, and that
this lane makes a short cut to it. Then, of course, you
can't see that it’s so steep until you come to this cor-
ner. Anyway, there's the place where he was thrown
into the quarry—you see, he crashed through those
rails—and yonder’s the cottage where he's lying. Of
course, we may find him dead—it's possible.”
Hextall, who was chiefly occupying himself by
watching Darrell Tress, caught a gleam of hope in his
eyes—it was abundantly plain that nothing would
give him such relief as to know that Tickell was sil-
enced for good. He was pondering over this strange
conduct when they reached the cottage door and en-
countered the doctor and the constable who were com-
ing out to meet them. The doctor shook his head as
he met the inquiring gaze of the Lynchfield superin-
tendent.
“Still unconscious,” he said. “I don’t know
whether we shan’t have to arrange an operation—I
must have further help and advice.”
“This gentleman is a doctor,” said the inspector
from Lynne. “Dr. Hextall—a London doctor, I be-
lieve, sir?” *
The two medical men went outside and talked,
and the police-superintendent turned to Darrell.


THE ANNOTATED CHART 135
“Just come inside, Mr. Tress, and see if this man is
Tickell,” he said. “It won’t take you a minute, and it
can't do him any harm if he's unconscious.”
Darrell entered the cottage with every sign of dis-
taste, Smith following closely at his elbow. The in-
jured man lay in the house-place on an improvised
bed, at the side of which sat a constable. Darrell
gave one quick glance at the white face and turned
away.
“That’s Tickell, of course,” he said. “Is that
enough?”
He tuned sharply and was walking out of the cot-
tage when the superintendent called him into another
room, a little parlour on the opposite side of the small
entrance porch. He produced a Norfolk jacket, and
from an inside pocket took a note-case held together
by a stout elastic band.
“Here's all that we found on him,” he observed,
looking at Smith, whom he evidently conceived to be
a person of some responsibility. “There was nothing
more beyond a watch and chain, a ring or two, and
some small things. Now, look here, Mr. Tress—are
those bank-notes part of the lot we’ve heard about?
They are? Good! They total up to about what I said
—getting on to four thousand pounds. Pretty good
proof that of who killed Kesteven, that! Now here's
the only scrap of paper we found on him—and what
it is I’m shot if I can make out. Looks like a bit of a
map or a chart, or something of that sort. What do
you make of it, sir?” he went on, handing a much-


CHAPTER XIV
COLD FEAR
-
HEXTALL and the Lynchfield doctor presently entered
the room in which Smith was making a rough copy of
the mysterious chart.
“We’re going to have him moved to our hospital
in the town,” said the Lynchfield doctor. “He’ll have
to be operated on. So you,” he continued, turning to
the police officials, “must make arrangements at once,
and in the meantime I’ll stay here with him. That's
an odd thing,” he remarked to Smith, indicating the
chart. “I was looking it over this morning. Can you
make it out?”
“Not yet,” answered Smith. He put the copy
which he had made into his pocket, and taking Hex-
tall outside the cottage pointed to Darrell, who was
walking moodily about the lane. “Look here, Hex-
tall,” he said. “What's the matter with Tress? It’s
very evident to me that he’d cheerfully have given
half his fortune if we'd found this chap dead, or if
you medicos could assure him that he's going to die.
Why? When we came down from London yesterday
morning he was certain that Tickell had killed Kest-
even, you remember, and he was all agog to see him
swing for it. Now he's the other way about. Again
I ask—why?”


138 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Nerves,” answered Hextall. “His nervous system
has never been strong, and his recent life hasn’t im-
proved it. He can't stand this publicity, and being
asked questions, and all the rest of it. That’s all.”
Smith shook his head.
“’Nº, I’’ he said. “That’s nº
heard sºlº- 'ºe yesterday.
his nº ". . k at ... ."
Dai e", e. dºly ca, a less or uncorso'eas a 'ont ob-
servation, had come to a stand in the lane. He was
muttering to himself; his pºle face was working al-
most convulsively, and he suddenly threw ºn both his
hands with a gesture that seemed to signify despair.
“I say—look at him!” repeated Sniºn. “Don’t tell
me that's mere nerves! I fell you that chap has heard
something since yesterday we don’t know of. And
he’s working himself up into a state of cold, killing
fear. Pure fear!”
“In that case, it'll do him no good hanging about
here,” said Hetaºl. “We’ve done all that’s wanted,
and we may as well go back at once.”
Darrell hailed this proposal to set off to Lynne
Court with obvious relief. He gave his chauffeur
curt orders to put on speed. He was moody and taci-
turn all the way back, and when he reached the house
he excused himself on the plea of a splitting head-
ache and left Hextall and Smith to lunch alone. In
the presence of the servants these two said nothing to
each other of the events of the morning, but when
lunch was over they went off to a quiet corner of the
grounds, each mutually conscious that there were mat-
t it. T at youngster has
* Something's on
\;:


COLD FEAR 139
ters to discuss. And Smith, taking his copy of this
strange chart from his pocket, laid it on his knee and
directed his companion's attention to it.
“Now what do you make of that, Hextall?” he said.
“Supposing you'd picked that scrap of paper up—
anyw, ere—how would it strike you? What is it?
!s this jeº-of-mution shaped diagram a map of some
rict” are illese initials those of places? Are these
ic figures directions and instructions? Prob-
bly they are—but it’s going to be a stiff job to find
out their meaning. And yet—I will lay all I'm
worth to this half-smoked cigar that in that rough
diagram, of which this is a copy, lies the whole
secret of Kesteven's murder.”
Hextall took the copy into his own hand and studied
it.
“It looks like an elementary sort of route map,”
he said after a pause. “And ałł these things are prob-
ably directions to a certain place. But—where's the
district that’s mapped, and what do these other details
mean? I see only one thing there that gives me any
notion.”
“I confess that I see nothing that gives me any
notion,” muttered Smith. “What do you see?”
“Why, this,” replied Hextall. “You see that line
—"Any evening 12th–18th–8%–9%. Do you
make nothing of that?”
“No!” exclaimed Smith. “Nothing!”
“Well,” said Hextall, “perhaps I don’t, really. But
it strikes me as being a bit significant that to-day is


140 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
the thirteenth day of May, and that yesterday was—
naturally—the twelfth. Eh?”
Smith stared, whistled, and snatched at the paper.
“By George—good!” he said. “Good! I'm be-
ginning to see. You think 29
“I should say,” continued Hextall, “that this was a
memorandum of instructions, probably to Tickell, to
go somewhere and meet somebody, on some—any—
evening between the twelfth and the eighteenth, be-
tween the hours of half-past eight and half-past nine.
And I also think that Tickell was on his way to dis-
charge that commission when he had that accident.”
“That's good reasoning,” said Smith. He put the
paper away carefully in his pocket-book. “I’ll have
that diagram and the rest of it worked out before
many hours are over,” he went on. “I’m going off to
town by the five train. What about you?”
“I’ve arranged to stay here until to-morrow,” an-
swered Hextall. “I want to see Miss Tress fairly con-
valescent—and I also want to have a talk to Tress.
I’m going to have a solid try to pull him round.”
“You’ll have to build up his nerves first,” remarked
Smith. “He was a good deal knocked by one thing
and another this morning. I wish I knew what was
in his mind. This is a lot bigger mystery, Hextall,
than any of us fancied at first. I’m more than ever
convinced that Tickell is as innocent of that murder
as I am.”
“Who's guilty, then?” asked Hextall.
“Some person who'll very likely go scot-free,” re-
plied Smith. “However, there are one or two things


COLD FEAR 141
to go upon. Master Styler, during his short stay here
yesterday, hit accidentally on an interesting little mat-
ter which may have some bearing on the case, and he
went promptly back to town to make some further
investigation about it. I’ll tell you what it was after-
wards—not yet. And also Styler, before news of the
murder came, had got just a slight clue as regards
Kesteven, very slight indeed, but something, and he’ll
be busy with that. So I want to get back to hear his
report.”
“What did he find out about Kesteven—isn’t that
yet ripe for telling?” asked Hextall. “I’m not without
curiosity, you know.”
“Oh, well!” answered Smith, “I can tell you that.
It’s a very small thing—but it may develop into a big
one—we may get at Kesteven's identity through it.
When Styler had that interview with Fowler at your
house, he got Fowler to take him back to the flat in
Queen Anne Street, in order to look over any effects
that Kesteven had there. He wanted to see if there
was anything in the shape of papers that would show
where Kesteven hailed from, before he introduced
himself to Tress. On the surface, there was nothing
in his drawers, or trunks, or clothes; not even a letter!
But Styler's a persevering sort of chap, not easily
baffled, and he's a perfect genius for finding things
in unlikely places. He got hold of the one suit that
Kesteven possessed when he first came into the Tress
ménage, and in the coat he found a secret pocket, in
the lining, wherein, wrapped in oiled silk, was—a
marriage certificate.”


142 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“A marriage certiſcate!” exclaimed Hextall.
“Kesteven’s?”
“Not in his name,” replied Smith. “But I should
say that it was his, from the fact that he was taking
so much care of it. It was a certificate of a marriage
contracted some years ago at an obscure church in the
City. Styler took a copy of it at the time he found
it—but he’ll have the original in his possession by
now—he got a key of the ſlat from Fowler yesterday
before leaving for London. So we may work up
something from that—I’ve got a bit of a start of a
theory of my own about that matter.”
“What?” asked Hex:áil.
It may be that the governess, Miss Brock, who’s
disappeared so strangely, is Kesteven's wife,” replied
Smith. “iſe brought her here, you know. Well, I'm
off to the station. Wall: there with me.”
As the two friends reached the station—a mere
railway halt at the further end of the village—Mrs.
Renton drove up in a smart pony-carriage, accom-
panied by an elderly, military-looking man, who
presently went off in the same train which carried
Smith away. Mrs. Renton came to Hextall.
“Can I drive you back to the Court?” she asked.
“I pass the gates, you know.”
Hextall thanked her and took the seat which the
military man had just vacated. And Mrs. Renton
whipped up her pony and immediately began to chat-
ter.
“You mustn't think I'm a mere gossip, Dr. Hex-
tall,” she said, “but like all village folk, I'm curious


COLD FEAR 143
about things that happen on one's own doorstep. Is
it true that the man Tickell has been found, and that
you’ve been to see him?”
Hextall reflected before he answered. After all,
everything that he knew as to what had taken place
at the lonely cottage would be public property by
next morning, it was only forestalling the newspapers
to tell Mrs. Renton the plain facts. And so he briefly
told her what had happened.
“I suppose it would be a mercy if the poor man
died,” she said. “It would save such a lot of un-
pleasantness, wouldn’t it? I’m so awfully sorry for
the Tress's; it's dreadful having to be dragged into
law courts and inquests, and that sort of thing. I’m
sure Darrell Tress dreads it.”
That Darrell Tress dreaded something became in-
creasingly evident to Hextall during the remainder of
that day. He was restless to the last degree; he could
not keep to one seat nor even to one room; it was a
trial to dine with him; it was useless to attempt to
engage him at billiards. And at last Hextall took him
aside and spoke plainly.
“Look here!” he said. “I’m not going to mince
matters. Have you had anything to drink to-day?”
“No!” growled Darrell. “Nor yesterday either—
since lunch. You saw what I had then. I’m going
to chuck all that. I’ve had nothing—honour bright!”
“Just so,” replied Hextall, “and the result is that
your nerves are ragged and raw, and you’re utterly
unstrung, and you’ll get no sleep to-night, and be a
worse wreck to-morrow morning! You must break off


COLD FEAR 145
Filled with a strange, dreadful fear, Hextall sprang
out of bed, huddled on some clothing, and let him-
self out of his own window. He knew that the win-
dow of Paquita’s bedroom was only two removes from
his own and he hurried to it. And then he saw, in
the light of a cloud-obscured moon, that it was open,
and he turned quickly to the balustrade of the balcony
to see a white shape disappear amongst the trees at
the edge of the spinney.
He knew what was happening then, and as he
clutched the cold stones he shivered with the fear of
what his knowledge meant. Paquita was walking in
her sleep! And she had gone to the scene of Kest-
even's murder! It seemed a long time before the
white shape reappeared among the trees. She was
coming back . . . she was making straight for the
stairs and the balcony and her room. She came
swiftly on, and Hextall shrank into a shadow and
watched—watched until the girl, her eyes fixed on
vacancy, yet full and lustrous, glided by him as if
she were a ghost and passed into her window. And
as he himself moved he felt his arms gripped in a
tight, frenzied hold, and a hot breath on his cheek,
and Darrell's voice, as frenzied as his grip, was hiss-
ing in his ear:
“You didn't see her, I tell you!—I tell you, you
didn't see her! You were dreaming, you infernal
fool! You were—”.
Then the voice died out, and the fierce grip was
loosed, and Hextall twisted sharply round as his host
sank at his feet with a queer, gurgling groan.


CHAPTER XV
THE WAKEFUL FOOTMAN
THE choking sound which escaped from Darrell
Tress's lips as he sank unconscious on the balcony
suddenly died away, and a dead silence fell around
Hextall and these strange happenings. He himself
held his breath and stood listening, every nerve quick-
ening with fear and anticipation. He was afraid of
what he might hear through the open window of
Paquita’s room. But presently he heard the slight,
almost imperceptible creaking of a bed, and he knew
that Paquita had gone back to her normal slumbers
and was safe for that time, and with a deep sigh of
relief he stooped, picked Darrell up, and half carried,
half dragged him to his room and laid him gently
down on a couch near the window. Then he ran to his
own room, took some restoratives from his bag, and
hastened back quietly and stealthily; he had no wish
to rouse any one, not even Fowler or either of the
nurses, for he was afraid of what Darrell might say
when he came round.
Darrell, brought round, suddenly sat up with a
muttered exclamation, and stared wildly at Hextall.
And Hextall, seeing that he was conscious again,
hastened to close the windows. Whatever Darrell had
to say must not penetrate outside that room.


THE WAKEFUL FOOTMAN 147
“You!” exclaimed Darrell. “I–I thought you
were Walters. I—what’s happened?”
Hextall, instead of replying, gave him a dose of
brandy. And Darrell's memory came back, and he
groaned dismally.
“I remember—I remember!” he almost wailed.
“I—ch, God, Hextall, was it you, then! And—you
saw her?”
“Pull yourself together,” said Hextall. “Come—
don’t be frightened. There!—you're better now.
Steady, man! and when you’re calmer, tell me what-
ever you like.”
Darrell, who was wagging his head to and fro and
muttering to himself, shivered, and Hextall threw a
wrap over him. But Darrell pushed it aside with a
weak laugh.
“It’s not—that,” he murmured. “I’m shaking
from fear. Oh, my God, Hextall, you don’t know
what I’ve gone through since—since—was it yester-
day? I don’t know. And—then—to see it with my
own eyes!”
“To see what?” asked Hextall. “Take your time,
now.”
“Walters told me,” said Darrell. “Walters—you
know. One of the footmen. I suppose I was half
asleep or something when I rushed out just now and
saw—her—and collared you. I thought you were
Walters, and I wanted to make you—Walters, I mean
—believe that you—he—didn't see—Paquita. But
—oh, my God!—I saw her!”


148 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
Hextall sat down at his side and made him drink
the rest of the brandy.
“Now what did Walters tell you?” he asked. He
knew that Darrell's mind was warped and confused,
and that it would never be cleared until he had told
what was troubling it; there was, moreover, the ques-
tion of Paquita's safety to be considered. “Tell me
quickly what Walters said to you,” he repeated.
“Don’t be afraid—you're all right, Tress.”
“I remember now,” said Darrell with a sudden
effort. “It was early yesterday morning—before we
went to that beastly inquest. Walters came to me in
my room, and said he'd got something which he
thought he ought to tell me. He said that he's lately
been sleeping very badly, and that nothing he'd taken
had done him any good, as he'd been in the habit of
walking about the grounds and the park last thing at
night for an hour. And he said that the other night—
the night Kesteven was shot—he'd been out that way,
and he was coming across the Dutch garden at the
end of the house there—end of this wing, you know,
and he saw—he saw Paquita! Good God, man!—he
saw Paquita, my poor little sister! Oh!”
“Steady!” commanded Hextall, laying his hand on
Darrell's wrist. “Steady now, Tress! Keep a hold on
yourself. What then? I’ve seen your sister walking
in her sleep to-night—so have you. It's a not uncom-
mon thing—with some people. She's had much to
distress and try her, and her nervous system 92
Darrell shook his head miserably.


THE WAKEFUL FOOTMAN 149
“Yes, yes; but it was just about the time that Keste-
ven was shot, according to what the doctor said,” he
answered. “The doctor said between twelve and one,
and Walters said this was at twenty to one.”
“But even then,” said Hextall, “that was a mere
coincidence. Good heavens, man, surely you don't
think 22
Darrell lifted his hands with a gesture of despair-
ing helplessness.
“Oh!” he cried. “Walters—Walters said she-she
had a revolver in her hand! He saw it!”
He suddenly let his hands fall; a second later he
dropped his face into them and began to sob. And
Hextall rose slowly to his feet, and stood, staring into
vacancy, silent.
Was it possible? That question rang and rang
and rang through his bewildered brain until he could
think of nothing else—not even of the utterly broken-
down lad sitting beside him. He remembered what
Paquita had said on the occasion of that midnight
visit in Wimpole Street—that she had often been
tempted to kill Kesteven; he remembered, too, the
almost desperate fashion in which she spoke of what
she might have done. “I could have shot him more
than once, and nobody would ever have known.” And
gradually his mind began to work on the possibili-
ties of the matter. He knew that persons given to
Somnambulism often do in sleep what they have con-
templated in waking hours; it might be that Paquita,


150 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
brooding over the matter which so troubled her,
had . . .
But Hextall suddenly checked himself with an im-
patient exclamation. Pshaw!—how was it possible
that this thing could have happened? It would have
meant that a living, watchful man, known to be keenly
alert to most things, was shot by a young woman who
was sleep-walking! Impossible—impossible—impos-
sible!—it could not be! And yet, as he repeated and
repeated that word impossible, something within him
answered “Yes—impossible—and yet . . . . pos-
sible!”
He turned on Darrell and shook him by the
shoulder, almost roughly.
“Come!” he said. “That’s natural, Tress, but we’ve
got to think. Tell me—will this man hold his
tongue?” -
“I paid him to hold it,” answered Darrell.
“At his request?” exclaimed Hextall. “Black-
mail?”
“No–not that. He didn’t ask for anything. He
may have expected it. Anyway, I gave him some-
thing handsome and told him to say nothing.”
“Pity! He'll expect more. But anyway, you think
he's not said a word to any one yet?”
“I’m sure he won't have done that. He's a decent
fellow—very.”
“You must let me see him in the morning, Tress.
In the meantime, try to sleep and to think no more
about this. Let me try to explain to you,” continued


THE WAKEFUL FOOTMAN 151
Hextall, “how almost utterly impossible it is for what
you seem to fear to have happened. You see 32
He sat down and talked earnestly for a while, argu-
ing as much to convince himself as to reassure Darrell
Tress. And at last he went away, leaving Darrell
more composed, and going straight to Nurse Palliser's
room he knocked gently at the door.
Nurse Palliser almost immediately came out into
the corridor to him. In the light of the candle which
she carried Hextall looked at her more closely than
he had ever done before. She was a tall, well-made
woman, evidently possessed of great physical strength.
Apparently now approaching early middle age, she
still showed traces of considerable beauty. But Hex-
tall was not looking at her for these characteristics;
he was wondering if she was really the capable and
watchful nurse that John Smith had made her out to
be.
“Who is on duty to-night in Miss Tress's dressing
room?” he asked. “One of you two nurses always
sleeps there, of course?”
Nurse Palliser showed some surprise.
“Of course!” she replied. “One or other of us
has always been there since we came. Nurse Hicks
to-night.”
“Then Nurse Hicks is rather too sound a sleeper,”
remarked Hextall. “Miss Tress has been walking in
her sleep.”
Nurse Palliser showed more surprise and some
alarm. She immediately turned in the direction of
Paquita's door, but Hextall stopped her.


152 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Wait!” he said. “Miss Tress has gone back to
bed, I am sure, but you can go in and see for yourself
in a minute. I wanted to ask you—who was on dut
the night you came down here—the first night?”
“Nurse Hicks, doctor,” she answered. “We are
taking it in turns.”
“For the whole night at a stretch?”
“Yes. , Nurse Hicks said that Miss Tress slept quite
through the night that first night, and she certainly did
last night, when I was on duty, because I was awake
a great deal—I am a poor sleeper.”
“Very well,” said Hextall. “Go in through the
dressing-room and see for yourself that Miss Tress
is all right. If they are both asleep, don't disturb
them. And you needn't say anything to Nurse Hicks
—I’ll speak to her myself.”
Then he went to his own room, not to sleep, but to
think. If ever there had been a time in his life, he
said to himself as he stood at his window, looking out
on the moonbeams that flecked the lawns below, a time
in which it was necessary to think hard and clearly,
it was this. It was no use indulging in vague specula-
tions. What the footman, Walters, had told Darrell
Tress was as good as a direct charge against Paquita
—that she had shot Kesteven. His testimony, re-
duced to a plain statement of fact, was that he had
seen Miss Tress coming from the direction of the
spinney at twenty minutes to one o'clock on the night
of the murder, and that she was carrying a revolver
in her hand.


154 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
means; only the hypnotist who has induced the state
can release from it. That knowledge caused Hextall
to invent an excuse for seeing Paquita as early as pos-
sible that morning. And he found her well and nor-
mal, and convinced himself that she was quite uncon-
scious of her nocturnal adventure. The hypnotic
theory in this case accordingly went by the board.
There had been no hypnotism, he assured himself;
it was a case of oldinary sleep-walking.
Later in the day Hextall contrived to get Paquita
and both her nurses away from the house, sending
them together for a drive. Then he found Darrell
and took him up to Paquita's rooms.
“Now,” he said. “There's a thing we must do at
once, Tress. We’ve got to investigate that revolver
matter. Walters says your sister was carrying a re-
volver. Therefore—the revolver must be in her
rooms. You must find it.”
“That won’t be difficult,” responded Darrell. “Pa-
quita and I have always been accustomed to having
a revolver or two handy ever since we were children
—we lived in a wild spot before we came to England.
It's probably in some drawer of her dressing-table.”
He found a revolver within a few minutes. It
lay in a small cabinet near Paquita's bed. It was a
six-chambered revolver, and from one chamber Dar-
rell presently drew a spent cartridge.


CHAPTER XVI
DEDUCTION BY METHOD
THE two men looked at each other silently as Darrell
laid revolver and cartridge on an adjacent table, and
it seemed a long time to both before Hextall spoke.
“That,” he said in a low voice, “that may be the
cartridge which your sister fired off accidentally at
your flat.”
But Darrell shook his head miserably.
“No!” he muttered. “Because it isn’t the same
revolver. I collared the one she had there—or Kest-
even did. Anyway, I got it, and it’s locked up in my
bedroom at the flat.”
Hextall picked up the revolver and examined it.
“I don’t know anything about these things,” he an-
swered. “I suppose you do? Can you tell if this
has been fired recently?”
Darrell took the spent cartridge and glanced at the
casing, almost indifferently.
“I should say so,” he answered. He took the re-
volver from Hextall, drew out the remaining cart-
ridges and dropped them into his pocket. “I’ll have
a hunt round and find out if Paquita’s got any more,”
he continued. “If she’s given to walking in her sleep
and carrying this sort of thing, it won’t do. But—
what’s to be done, Hextall?”


156 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“About what?” asked Hextall, who was trying to
think matters out.
Darrell gave him a look which conveyed and sug-
gested a good many things.
“That chap, Walters,” he answered. “By gad!—
he's got the whip hand of us! Supposing 22
“Don’t suppose anything,” interrupted Hextall.
“Wait! I'll see Walters. Let's see him at once.”
But even as he spoke he reflected on the real use-
lessness of anything that he could say to the footman.
If the man told what he knew, certain complications
would surely arise, the end of which nobody could
foresee. He pictured the police getting hold of this
news! it would be such a chance for a persevering de-
tective as was not often obtainable. Something of his
feeling must have showed itself in his face, for Dar-
rell, glancing at him, groaned.
“It’s all very well, Hextall,” he said, “but we’re at
his mercy. If we let him see that 29
“We mustn't let him see anything,” broke in Hex-
tall. “What I want is to see him—to size him up.”
Walters, summoned to Darrell's study, presented a
countenance of stolid respect and attention to his mas-
ter and Dr. Hextall. He replied quietly and politely
to all the doctor's questions It was quite true that he
had seen Miss Tress on the night of Mr. Kesteven's
death, and under the circumstances described. He
had not been very near her, but he had noticed that
she was carrying a revolver. He had not spoken a
word to any one on this matter—except to Mr. Tress.


DEDUCTION BY METHOD 157
He listened with interest while Hextall spoke to him.
Miss Tress, said Hextall, had lately been much men-
tally disturbed, and she had evidently formed a habit
of walking in her sleep. Presumably, something in her
mental processes had made her pick up and carry the
revolver on that particular night. And—it would be
as well, for the present at any rate, if Walters would
abstain from mentioning the matter to any one.
Walters nodded understandingly.
“I shan’t say a word, sir,” he said. “I’ve never had
any intention of saying a word. I thought it my duty
to tell Mr. Tress, but I never dreamt of telling any
one else. You can rely on me, sir.”
“That's right,” responded Hextall. “I’m glad to
hear it. Now, there's a question that I wanted to ask
you, Walters, apart from this. You say, I under-
stand, that you were walking about the park and
grounds for some time about midnight on the night of
Mr. Kesteven’s death?”
“Quite an hour, sir,” replied Walters. “From
about eleven forty-five to ten minutes to one.”
“Was it a very still night?” asked Hextall.
“The nights are always still about here, sir. You
don't hear anything except perhaps a dog barking at
some of the farms, or a train going along in the dis-
tance.”
“Just so. Well, now, during the hour that you were
out there, did you hear a shot fired?”
“No, sir—most certainly not! I thought of that
myself, sir, when I noticed the revolver in my mis-


158 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
tress's hand—at least, I thought of it when I heard
about Mr. Kesteven, next morning.” ---
“If a shot had been fired anywhere in the park or
grounds, or garden, at that time—while you were out,
you know—you'd have heard it?” r
“Couldn't have failed to hear it, sir. The sound of
even a small pistol would have carried a long way on
a still night. And that made me dead certain, sir, that
Miss Tress hadn't fired her revolver while she was out.
I was never far away from the house, and I couldn’t
possibly have helped hearing any shot—yes, any sort
of a shot, fired within a mile.” -
ſ
|
“I’m glad you thought of that,” observed Hextall. ſ
He turned to Darrell when the footman had gone, with |
a reiterated promise to keep close counsel, and he
smiled encouragingly. “That's the best bit of news
we've had, Tress,” he said. “I must tell that to Smith
at once. Do you not see what it means—that fact that ſ
Walters never heard a shot?”
“Not exactly,” answered Darrell.
“It means what has already crossed the minds of
more than one of us,” said Hextall. “It means that
there's good reason to believe that Kesteven was not |
shot where he was found, but in some house in the
neighbourhood, and that his body was brought to that
clearing in the spinney at a later hour in the morning.
I must certainly let Smith know of this as soon as I
get to town this afternoon.” |
“You’re going to leave us?” exclaimed Darrell ...
ruefully. * ſ


DEDUCTION BY METHOD 159
“I must—I only arranged for two days’ leave. But
I have a suggestion to make to you. I should like to
have your sister under my care a little longer—more-
over, I don't think it's exactly a good thing for her
to be down here just now—and I think you'd do well
if you moved your establishment to town for a while.
Your flat's big enough for you and your sister and
brother, isn’t it?”
“By gad, that's a good notion, and we'll do it!”
answered Darrell. “Of course, the flat's big enough
for the three of us, and we'll go at once—since that
affair of the other night I'm a bit sick of this place.
I say—we haven’t heard a word of Miss Brock.”
“The governess? No-that's another mystery,” re-
plied Hextall. “What do you know about her?”
“Nothing! Paquita and I thought the young 'un
ought to have a governess, you know, and we hap-
pened to mentioned it to Kesteven, and he immedi-
ately said he knew the very person, and got Miss
Brock down. I say—do you think she knows any-
thing about this affair?”
“That's a big question,” replied Hextall. “Like
the rest of them, it will not be answered just now.
There's a vast lot of mystery about all this business,
Tress, and I'm afraid we’re only on the fringe of it.
I’m anxious to know what Smith and his man have
done.”
He drove straight to Smith's chambers as soon as he
reached London that afternoon, and found Smith
closeted with Styler, and both absorbed in the con-
templation of maps and papers. Before asking news


160 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
from them he told them of what had happened during
the night, and of what Walters had told him. Both
listened with deep interest and attention.
“That footman's evidence may be of the greatest
importance, eventually,” remarked Smith. “I hope
he's the sort of fellow you can rely on. You're sure
he is? Well, that's good. Of course, Kesteven was
not shot where he was found! He was carried there
—that's certain. We're getting on, Hextall—Styler
and I have not been idle during the last twenty-four
hours, I can assure you.”
“I want to hear,” said Hextall, glancing at Smith's
paper-strewn desk.
“All right—you shall. First of all, you'll remem-
ber that I told you that Styler came up specially to
search Tress's flat for that old suit of Kesteven's in
which he'd previously found the marriage certificate
—I told you, too, that Fowler had furnished him with
a key of the flat?”
“I remember,” said Hextall.
“Tell Dr. Hextall what you found when you visited
the flat last night, Styler,” commanded Smith, turning
to his clerk with a whimsical grin.
“I found that somebody had been there before me,
Dr. Hextall,” responded Styler, with prompt alacrity.
“Yes, sir—and with the same object. And whoever
it was had gone straight for what he or she-"
“She-shel” murmured Smith “She-without rea-
sonable doubt!”
“Well, for what she wanted,” continued Styler.
“Only, I'm not so certain about it being a she as you


DEDUCTION BY METHOD 161
are, sir. But there, in the room that Kesteven had,
was the coat thrown on the bed, and somebody had
ripped open the secret pocket, and, of course, the mar-
riage certificate was gone!”
“But you have a copy?” said Hextall.
“We'd have much preferred the original,” an-
swered Smith, dryly. “However—it's escaped us.
Still—we know where that marriage took place.”
“Why do you insist on its being a woman who took
it?” asked Hextall. “You say it was “she”
“It was a woman,” affirmed Smith. “And the
woman was the governess—Miss Brock. Lay a mil-
lion to one on it! Styler isn't so sure of that fact as
I am—but we shall see. In the meantime, Hextall,
we've solved the mystery of that strange chart. That
is—Styler has. I told you Styler was uncommonly
clever—he'll prove a modern Widocq before he's
done. Explain to Dr. Hextall, Styler.”
Styler, who was in his usual state of inkiness,
shuffled among the various papers which lay between
him and Smith.
“You’re perhaps a bit too confident, sir,” he said,
modestly. “You should have said that I think I’ve
solved it. However, I don't think I'm far out. If
you'll look at the drawing which Mr. Smith made,
Dr. Hextall, you’ll observe that it represents some-
thing very like a leg of mutton in shape; in fact, what
you might call a very irregular sort of triangle. And
you’ll see that there are figures at certain parts of that
drawing, and that the figures refer to letters at the
foot. Now, after I’d puzzled my brains over this


162 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
thing all last night and part of this morning, it sud.
denly struck me that this is a chart referring to some
part of the coast. Obviously, then, the thing to do was
to get a map and look at our coastline. And when I
got the map, the whole thing became plain. Look
here! This rough chart represents Portland with a bit
of the mainland. The letter W indicates Weymouth.
The letters PP mean Portland Prison. The letters K
of D are plainly meant to indicate a certain roadside
tavern, marked on this recent ordnance map, and
called the King of Denmark. The letter C certainly
refers to that cove, a mile or two from the King of
Denmark, on the beach. What do you say, Dr. Hex-
tall?”
“A clever explanation, Styler!” said Hextall.
“Well, of course, it all depends on the conjunction
of letters,” continued Styler. “But one can't help see-
ing that there they are, at Porland, and there's no other
part of the coast where they do occur in conjunction
—no part where a W, a PP, a K of D, and a C, come
together. Well, now for the rest. You see what this
line says: “Any evening, 12th–18th: 8%–9%.”
I take that to mean that somebody 99
“Meaning Tickell—if that's his right name,” mur.
mured Smith.
“Somebody—probably Tickell—could meet some-
body else, either at the King of Denmark public-
house or at that cove, any evening between the 12th
and the 18th instant, any time from half-past eight
to half-past nine. And as for the letters P and C, and
the words which follow them, they're plain enough.


DEDUCTION BY METHOD 163
P means Password, and the password is Endeavours,
C means Countersign, and the countersign is Accom-
plishment. So I make out, anyway.”
Smith looked at Hextall with a smile of sly pride
in his clerk's cleverness.
“Ingenious young hand, isn't he?” he chuckled.
“You’ll see that'll all turn out to be absolutely cor-
rect—certain!”
“What do you suppose it refers to?” asked Hextall.
Smith and Styler exchanged glances. Both smiled.
“Ah!” replied Smith. “Well, we may tell you, as
you're in the swim with us. As Portland is un-
doubtedly the place, we believe this precious scrawl
refers to some scheme connected with some gentleman
who is now undergoing penal servitude at that estab-
lishment. And as there are still some days to elapse
before the 18th is reached, Styler and myself are leav-
ing for Weymouth by the first express to-morrow
morning—to investigate matters on the exact spot.”


CHAPTER XVII
MISS BROCK
HEXTALL smiled at Smith's sleuth-hound-like eager-
ness and rose to go. But the barrister stopped him.
“Wait a bit,” he said. ”That's not all. Since
we've told you so much, Hextall, we may as well tell
you more. I think you’ll remember that when we
were talking in the garden at Lynne Court, yesterday
afternoon, I mentioned to you that Styler, during his
short visit to the place, had made an interesting dis-
covery, and had returned to town to investigate cer-
tain matters in connexion with it?”
“I remember,” replied Hextall.
“And I also said that I'd tell you about that dis-
covery later on?” continued Smith. “Very good; I'll
tell you now, so that you’ll have all these facts in
mind. You possibly remember that when you and I
and Styler first got down to Lynne we had a conversa-
tion with Fowler and the police-inspector at the inn,
after which you and I walked up to the house together,
leaving Styler to attend to-other matters? Very
good—now, in the course of his attention to those mat-
ters, Styler came across a pleasant little bungalow,
set in the woods near Lynne Court, in a clearing situ-
ate about half a mile from the spot where Kesteven's
body was found. He had heard of that bungalow
from the landlord of the inn, who told him that it had
:


166 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Septimus Philcox,” replied Smith, nodding his
head gravely. “Septimus Philcox! What—the name
doesn't recall anything to you? Well, well!—but I
forget that this was a commercial matter, and that you
don't take an interest in such things. Septimus Phil-
cox, my dear Hextall, was the head and front of the
famous Imperial Splendour gang. Turn up a news-
paper file of twelve years or so ago, and you'll know
all about the Imperial Splendour affair—rather!
The Imperial Splendour Development and Enterprise
Society was one of the biggest frauds ever shoved
down the throats of a gullible public. Philcox was
its head, its front, its life, its soul—and in the end
Philcox got fourteen years—seven on each of the two
indictments, not to run concurrently—and his prin-
cipal satellites got lesser terms. And a few months
ago, Philcox, having been a model convict—those sort
of chaps always are, you know—was released on
licence, only to disappear again from public view,
and to entrench himself in a pretty bungalow, and to
plant cabbages, under the name of Samuel Pegge.
You follow me?”
“How,” asked Hextall, “how did Styler know that
Mr. Samuel Pegge was Septimus Philcox?”
“A proper question,” said Smith. “But easily an-
swered. You are probably aware that all persons of
a criminal nature are not only inordinately vain, but
are also morbidly fond of hearing and reading any-
thing about themselves. Now, in that pocket-book Sty-
ler found a mass of newspaper cuttings—accounts of
Philcox's trial and so on. But he also found a much


MISS BROCK 167
more important document—Philcox's license. A
licence, my dear Hextall, is what used to be called a
ticket-of-leave. When Styler saw that he knew in
whose presence he was. And according to Styler, the
once great head of the Imperial Splendour Society
is a very hale and hearty old gentleman who is enjoy-
ing himself in the evening of his ill-spent days. Eh?”
“I suppose the police know that Samuel Pegge is
Septimus Philcox?” suggested Hextall.
“The Scotland Yard people do, of course,” replied
Smith. “We have a friend or two there—Styler held
converse with them yesterday. Oh, yes, they know!
You see, Philcox has a couple of respectable sons, and
they allow the old chap a sufficient income to enable
him to live in similar respectability. And you may
be sure that there isn't a soul in the neighbourhood of
Lynne Court who suspects that Mr. Samuel Pegge is
one and the same with the Septimus Philcox whose
nefarious deeds were matter of so much public atten-
tion twelve years ago!”
“Well?” said Hextall.
“Well—what?” asked Smith.
“Do you think there's any connexion between Phil-
cox or Pegge, and what's just happened?” inquired
Hextall. “Do you think that Pegge was mixed up at
all with Kesteven, or Tickell?”
“I don't now what we think—yet,” replied Smith,
looking at Styler, who had listened eagerly to the nar-
rative of his own doings. “But we do know that Phil-
cox was only released from Portland, on licence, a
few months ago, and that on Tickell has been found a


168 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
chart, or map, or whatever you like to call it, which
most certainly—in our opinion—has to do with Port-
land. And I think Styler and I will know more be-
fore many days are over.”
“And you go down there at once?” asked Hextall.
“We go down to Weymouth to-morrow morning-
by the very first express from Paddington,” replied
Smith. “Naturally, we shall take the strictest pre-
cautions. Those precautions will begin now—our
motto, my dear Hextall, is Thoroughness. I shall be
a tourist gentleman, in the usual tourist get-up of loud
tweeds—I may throw in a little touch of the amateur
artist, and carry a sketch-book, for I can use my pen-
cil. As for Styler, he will be a motor-bicyclist, holi-
day-making, and will be accompanied by his machine.
We shan’t know each other at Paddington, and though
we shall put up at the same hotel in Weymouth, we
shall be strangers to each other until we foregather
casually—quite casually— in the smoking-room.
Quite casually, too, quite accidentally, you know, we
shall both drop in at the King of Denmark wayside
inn, to-morrow evening, between the hours of half-
past eight and half-past nine—just to see what offers.
And we shall be there—at least one or other of us will
be there—every evening until the eighteenth is come
and gone.”
“Let me suggest an improvement,” said Hextall,
with a smile. “Wouldn't it be far better if one of you
put up—as a tourist—at the King of Denmark?”
|


MISS BROCK 169
Styler made a murmur of approval and Smith,
after a moment's consideration, nodded in acquies-
CenCe.
“Good!” he said. “No doubt it would. If one can
find accommodations; and if they haven’t got it there,
they'll no doubt be able to find a room in some neigh-
bouring cottage. Styler, that will have to be me—I’ll
be an artist, wanting to make sketches of the coast
scenery. Then you can nip in and out of Weymouth on
your machine. Good suggestion, Hextall—thank
you.”
Hextall made Smith promise to keep him informed
of what came of this excursion, and went off West-
ward. It was then six o'clock in the evening, and as
he walked up the Strand, to make a call at a surgical
instrument shop, it suddenly occurred to him that
as he had not wired to his housekeeper with respect
to his return there would be no dinner ready for him
at home. He had lunched early at Lynne Court and
now he was hungry. Accordingly, having paid his
visit to the surgical instrument maker, he turned into
Charing Cross railway station, intending to dine in
the restaurant. And going first to the bookstall, with
a view to the purchase of a newspaper or two where-
with to solace himself during a lonely meal, he sud-
denly caught sight of Miss Brock. -
The governess had evidently gone to the bookstall
on a like mission to his own. She was, in fact, just
concluding the purchase of a magazine, and it was
a fortunate thing that her attention was taken up by
counting the change which a bookstall-attendant had


170 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
just handed to her. Fortunately, too, the station was
at that hour crowded with business men, going home-
ward. Hextall drew back amongst the crowds and
kept his eyes on the slight, quietly-dressed figure. He
was vaguely perplexed by this encounter. It was
surely his duty to keep Miss Brock in sight, now that
she had accidentally come within his view—perhaps,
indeed, he ought to go up and speak to her. A con-
stitutional diffidence and shyness held him back—
after all, what right had he to interfere with Miss
Brock's movements? And while he hesitated, Miss
Brock put her change in her purse, picked up her
magazine, and, turning away, crossed the platform
and disappeared within the restaurant. She, too, was
presumably intent on refreshment.
Hextall waited a little, hanging about, always
watching the door through which the governess had
passed. Eventually, still uncomfortably indecisive,
he went up to that door, walked a little way within,
and looked round. Then he saw Miss Brock again.
She was sitting at a little table in a far corner; a bill-
of-fare was in her hand; a waiter stood attentive at
her side. It was very evident that Miss Brock was
going to dine.
Hextall drew back quickly, possessed of a sudden
splendid inspiration. He hurried to the nearest tele-
phone box, hastily turned over the leaves of a direc-
tory, and rang up Smith's chambers in the Temple.
In another minute he was hailed by Styler. Smith,
said Styler, had just gone, but he, Styler, was very
much there.


172 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
|
“I’ll follow her,” replied Styler. “She doesn't
know me. You be off, doctor. Leave it all to me.
I've nothing to do but to make ready for to-morrow's
journey, and I can sit up all night to do that. Look
here—I’ll drop in at your house later, and tell you
about her movements.”
Hextall went away and dined elsewhere, and later
he drove home and spent the evening listening to the
report of the locum tenens who had looked after his
patients during his absence. And in the course of the
evening in came Styler, imperturbable and confident
aS CVer.
“I followed her,” said Styler, when he and Hextali
were alone. “She spent some time over her dinner,
too! But she came out at last, and she took a taxi
and drove to a certain house in Kensington. And she
hadn't gone into it many minutes when up came an-
other taxi and set down—Mrs. Renton! So there's an-
other little link in the chain, doctor, and it’ll have to
be examined when Mr. Smith and I return from where
we're going.”
|
r
ſ
|
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|
\
f


CHAPTER XVIII
THE SEA-CAPTAIN
TowARDs sunset of the next day, a short, stoutish gold-
spectacled gentleman, who wore a deerstalker hat, a
suit of very loud-patterned tweed, gaily coloured
stockings, and conspicuous brogue shoes, and who car-
ried a sketch-book in one hand, and a faded green um-
brella in the other, stood on the edge of a cliff which
over-looked a tiny cove that lay silent and deserted
amongst the western rocks of Portland Bill. Beneath
him lay the grey waters which stretch in a wide, little-
ship-frequented bay from Portland to the mouth of
the Exe; on his right hand, growing less and less dis-
tinct as the daylight faded into twilight, and the twi-
light into the first shades of the night, the cliffs and
headlands of Dorset rose above that vast expanse of
rock and pebble which folk call the Chesil Beach.
And behind him rose the encampments and ramparts
of the Bill, known to all the world as the promontory
or semi-isle whereon one of our biggest convict estab-
lishments is housed, and not so well known, save to
tourists, as a very busy and thickly-populated com-
munity of little towns and villages. Smith was al-
ready familiar with this country. He had more than
once, holiday-making, crossed that tiresomely long
and weary road which leads from the mainland to the
ancient Isle of Vindilis which, in these times under its


174, LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
new name of Portland, gives a title to a duke and
houses many ne'er-do-wells until their various of:
fences are purged. He knew all about its history,
from the times when it was inhabited by the ancient
Baleares, the stone-slingers. He had visited all its
famous places: Fortune's Well, and Deadman's Bay,
and Bow-and-Arrow Castle, and Pennsylvania. And
he had often stopped to read those notice-boards
which appear at frequent intervals on these wild and
strong wastes, whereon are set forth the pains and
penalties which await people who do anything to-
wards aiding and abetting in the escape of the pris-
oners in the great, gaunt buildings on the heights.
There was one of these boards just behind the spot
on which he stood, and he turned and read its warn-
ing before the sun sank behind the far-off hills of
distant Devonshire.
It was drastic and plain enough, that notice. It
was addressed to beings known as “free persons”—
which seemed to argue that, in the opinion of the
authorities, there were only two classes of individuals
in the world: those who were safely incarcerated in
Portland Prison, and those who were not. Such free
persons were plainly informed that any attempt to
aid prisoners to escape would be treated as a felony,
and the wrongdoer would not enjoy the benefits of
bail or mainprise—in other words, if the law caught
him, the law would hold him securely until he himself
was convicted and sentenced. There were, however,
sops of a substantial sort held out to these free per-
sons. If a free person chanced, by sheer good luck


THE SEA-CAPTAIN 175
or pure accident, to find clothing, or letters, or money,
evidently, or presumably, or supposititiously, left to
further the escape of prisoners, and took such money,
or letters, or clothing, to the proper authorities, they
would reward him—unless they suspected and proved
him to have been in collusion with some person mean-
ing to encourage such escape. Therefore, it had al-
ways seemed to Smith, you had to be careful in ex-
ploring Portland, lest you should be taken to be some
one anxious to set free upon the world a convicted
burglar, or fraudulent company promoter, or some
other rascal who had been sent to quarry stone for
five or seven or fifteen years.
“It is odds-on that Styler and I are unknowingly en-
gaged in some such game!” mused Smith, as he turned
landward. “If all this business doesn’t mean that,
I'm a Hottentot!”
He and Styler had already made up their minds
as to what the real meaning of the mysterious chart
was. It referred, without doubt, to some conspiracy
which had as its main object the release by escape
of some prisoner now within those frowning walls.
Their theory was that that prisoner was a friend, prob-
ably a past associate, of Kesteven or of Tickell, and
that Kesteven had entrusted Tickell with money to
further the matter. The money which Tickell had
carried on him was probably meant as means for
bribing warders, or officials, or—somebody. If the
deciphered chart meant anything, it meant that Tic-
kell, as agent, was to meet some person or persons
on some evening between the 12th and the 18th, at the


176 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
King of Denmark, in order to arrange matters. Well,
here was the 15th–the fifteenth day of May—half-
way between the appointed limited dates? And though
Tickell was not here, Smith and Styler were, and
there, in a knoll beneath the high ground, stood the
King of Denmark. All was ready: all in order, ex-
cept one matter which, when Smith came to think of it,
was of vast importance. He and Styler, after all,
were only guessing at things, and of details they knew
nothing.
“It’s a case of trusting to sheer luck,” soliloquized
Smith. “And whatever I may have, Styler is one of
those fellows who are gifted with superabundant luck
—I shall leave most of this to Styler.”
He had succeeded, in his rôle of artist and holiday-
maker, in getting a room at the inn, and he now strolled
back there to eat his supper. The inn was a homely
place enough; an old-fashioned, wayside hostelry set
on a country road, half-way between an inland village
of stone-quarriers and a beach village tenanted by
fisher-folk. Its accommodation was primitive; its cus-
tom seemed to be small. And when Smith, having
eaten a dish of eggs and bacon, which was all the
place could afford him that night, went into the low-
ceilinged bar-room to smoke his pipe and look out
for whatever might chance, he found it untenanted
save for the landlady, who was polishing glasses be-
hind the bar.
But presently a man came in. He was a little man,
dressed nattily in blue serge, cut in nautical fashion;
a middle-aged man, who wore gold rings in his ears


178 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Just so, ma'am,” replied Captain Polbeck. “What
I've traded to any time and all times this five-and-
twenty year. Barbadoes — Tobago — Trinidad –
Georgetown—them's my places of call, Mother Bas-
sett, as well you know, me having brought you many
a nice little parcil o' goods from one or other of 'em,”
he added, with a wink which embraced Smith. “Nice
goods to be picked up on them coasts, ma'am.”
Smith lost interest in Captain Polbeck. He, clearly,
was not the man, or one of the men, whom he and
Styler wanted to meet. He opened a guide-book and
began to read, leaving the seafarer and the landlady
to talk in their own fashion. But before he had
turned a page, the outer door opened, and in came a
young man in overalls and goggles, a motor-cyclist,
well powdered with white dust. And Smith gave him
one glance and dipped into his book again.
Styler pulled off his gauntlets, slapped the dust off
them, and advancing to the bar, demanded some in-
nocuous refreshment. He passed the time of day with
the landlady and Captain Polbeck; within five minutes
he was in hearty converse with the seaman. Then
Smith began to prick up his ears, for Styler was lead-
ing the conversation over several byways, and was
using many fine words. He had now got Captain Pol-
beck into a corner, and had treated him to a cigar,
and he was just discussing Captain Scott and his Ant-
artic venture, just then beginning.
“Aye, well, mister,” at last said Styler, in casual
tones. “It’ll be a difficult endeavour, that—a very
difficult endeavour!” -


THE SEA-CAPTAIN 179
Smith almost jumped in his seat. What was the im-
petuous Styler after? Endeavour!—that was the pass-
word! In spite of himself, Smith could not refrain
from glancing out of his eye-corners at the little sea-
farer. And he saw Polbeck give Styler a peculiarly
meaning look.
“Endeavour?” he said. “Aye—aye! But not so
difficult of accomplishment as you think.”
Accomplishment!—the countersign! So this was
the man—this little person who traded with the West
Indian ports and with British Guiana, of which
Georgetown is the capital! What, then, were all the
preconceived notions which he and Styler had
He looked up to see Styler and Captain Polbeck
leave the bar-room and go out into the night. Oh, this
was the man sure enough! Well, Styler was a sharp
customer and might be trusted to know what he was
about. Styler would
Even as he speculated on what was happening, Sty-
ler strolled into the bar-room again, ostentatiously
picked up a road-map which he had left lying on the
table, and, again retiring, gave his master a knowing
wink. And Smith presently got up, stretched his
arms, made a remark to the landlady about the even-
ing, and went out.
Styler was waiting for him within the deep stone
porch. He led Smith into the road and pointed to a
figure strolling along the road a little distance away,
outlined against the glow in the western sky.
“This is the chap!” whispered Styler. “He fully
believes we're the persons he was to meet. But I


180 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
don't understand it at all—it's not with Portland—
you know what I mean, sir—that we're dealing.
And the thing to do is to act as if we knew every-
thing, and to let him talk—then we'll find out. Leave
it to me, sir—I’ve said that you're the gentleman
that's to arrange the money part of it.”
Captain Polbeck turned and met them as they went
up the lonely road. He shook hands with Smith
effusively.
“Servant, sir!” he whispered. “Shiver me if I
didn't wonder if you was the gentleman, or one of
'em, as I was to meet. I give you a look as I come
in, and I see you look at me. But p'raps you was
a-waiting for an opportunity to give the word?”
“You’re right, captain. I was waiting,” answered
Smith.
“’Zactly, and quite right—can't be too careful in
these matters,” said the captain. “This here other
gentleman, however, he worked that there password
into his talk clever, he did. ‘Endeavor', says hel–
just so. And ‘accomplishment,” says I–to be sure!
Good!—and now we can have our bit of talk, gen-
tlemen.” -
“We’ll hear your plans, captain,” said Styler.
“Then we can talk about the money. I suppose it's
safe, talking here?”
“Safe enough, sir—ain't nobody about just here at
this time o’ night,” said Polbeck. “Well, plans now.
Simple and plain they be. This way it is—I sails
from Weymouth on the twentieth—I calls at these
;
l


THE SEA-CAPTAIN 181
West Indian ports first, and then I goes on to George-
town. There I stops a fortnight, taking in my cargo
of Demerara sugar. During that fortnight this man’ll
be brought along country to me—from them French
settlements. The time they'll want’ll be four days.
That'll give them as has it in hand four days to go
up, after I strike Georgetown, a day or two to get him
away, four days to bring him along. Then they put
him aboard me, and I brings him straight home to
England. All this, of course, if I takes 'em the
money, and gets my share. You've the money ready,
I reckon, gentlemen?”
Styler contrived to nudge Smith, and took the an-
swer to this question upon himself.
“The money's all right, captain,” he answered.
“Now, just to be businesslike, what's the exact amount
agreed upon? Of course, we’ve our memorandum
of it, but we'd like a formal statement from you.”
“Just so—just so!” agreed Polbeck. “That's busi-
ness. The amount is what I expect was written from
across yonder to them as you represent, gentlemen.
Three thousand pound for them; five hundred for
me. Half of mine to be paid now; tother half when
I land him here in England. This money, the three
thousand, I'm to take out. And my special instruc-
tions, gentlemen, is—gold!”


CHAPTER XIX
HALF A BIRD IN THE HAND
AcAIN Styler nudged his master: again he became
mouthpiece.
“Gold?” he said. “All right, captain—English
sovereigns, of course?”
“English sovereigns is the word, sir,” answered
Polbeck. “Nothing like 'em in the way of that metal,
gentlemen!”
“Well, of course, we don't carry three thousand
sovereigns in our waistcoat pockets,” remarked
Styler. “But we carry what can soon be turned into
'em. You'll have to meet us in Weymouth, captain,
to-morrow.”
“Right you are, sir,” responded Polbeck. “Wher-
ever and whenever you please, gentlemen. Now, I
lives, when at home, in this village behind here,
but Weymouth sees me every day. To-morrow, says
you?—now, what hour, and where?”
Smith replied to that question.
“Noon—outside the General Post Office,” he said.
“That do for you, captain?”
“Suit me precisely, sir,” answered Polbeck. “I
go in every morning to see what's going on with the
loading of my ship—I’m taking out a general cargo
to them West Indian ports. About the packing o' that


HALF A BIRD IN THE HAND 183
gold, now, gentlemen?—three thousand sovereigns
make a tidy weight. If so be as you could have it
put in stout bags at the bank, I could bring a couple
of hefty chaps along of me to carry it.”
“Meet us first and we can soon arrange that,” said
Smith. “You could take it down to your ship in a
cab, you know. Noon, then, to-morrow, outside the
post office.”
Polbeck presently said good night and went off up
the road, evidently quite unsuspicious and highly
satisfied, and Smith and Styler, instead of turning
back into the inn, walked away towards the cliffs.
The last glow of sunset had died out in the west, and
the night was setting in dark and heavy over land
and sea. Few scenes could possibly have looked
more deserted or solitary; nevertheless, both men
felt a sense of fear about talking openly.
“Careful, Styler,” whispered Smith. “You don't
know who may be about, in these quarters. Yet we
must talk. Now that we’ve seen that chap, I wish I
was in Weymouth.”
“Easy done,” answered Styler. “Ride back on my
motor-bike. You can sit behind, sir, and I’ll go
steady. As you say, you never know what ears there
may be around here—besides, that doesn't look over
comfortable a spot, and we've done all that's neces-
sary.”
A retreat to Weymouth seemed the most advisable
proceeding, and Smith returned to the inn, made
an excuse to and settled up with his landlady, got


184 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
his small impedimenta, and went back to the road to
find Styler arranging his machine. An hour later,
the two were in a quiet bedroom in a comfortable
hotel, with the materials for a nightcap between them,
and their joint faculties turned at full on the problem
of the moment.
“Styler,” said Smith, “this is not at all what we
fancied it was going to be. This is no question of
aiding and abetting in an escape from the convict
prison at Portland. It's something of a similar na-
ture, without doubt, but on very different lines and
of different colour and significance, and we may
thank our lucky stars that Captain Polbeck fell into
everything as simply and easily as he did. Now,
what have you made of it, so far?”
“That there's some scheme afoot to bring some
Englishman across from somewhere; that somebody
wants three thousand pounds for their share in the
matter; that Polbeck wants five hundred for his,” an-
swered Styler. “Beyond that, sir, I haven't gone—
can't go.”
“I’ve gone beyond that,” said Smith. “This it is,
in my view of things. This chap, Polbeck, is evi-
dently master of a trading vessel—small schooner,
I should think—in which he makes periodical voyages
to the West Indies, Barbadoes, Tobago, Trinidad, and
so on, and to Georgetown, in British Guiana. In
British Guiana, mind you, Styler! Now, do you
know anything about Guiana?”


HALF A BIRD IN THE HAND 185
“Not much, sir, except that it's in South America,”
answered Styler. “But I’ll know more before ten
o'clock to-morrow, if there's a reference library in
this town.”
“Well, I know sufficient to keep us going to-night,”
remarked Smith. “Guiana is a biggish tract of coun-
try on the north-east corner of South America. It's
divided up—so far as European Powers are con-
cerned—between Great Britain, Holland, and France,
so there's British Guiana, Dutch Guiana, and French
Guiana. Now, Georgetown is the capital of British
Guiana—it's a place of some size, a port of some im-
portance. But we’re not concerned with Georgetown,
Styler, except in so far as it's the port at which Pol-
beck expects to take on board this—somebody. What
we’re concerned with is French Guiana—from whence
that somebody's to be brought. Do you guess why
French Guiana concerns us?”
“At present—no!” replied Styler.
“Then I'll tell you. We're concerned with it, and
the mysterious somebody who's to be brought from it,
because French Guiana, Styler, is the colony to which
our neighbours across the Channel yonder, send their
convicts—the long-term lot of 'em, at any rate. So
that—do you see?”
“The somebody is probably a French convict!” ex-
claimed Styler.
“Precisely, my son! A French convict—and, pre-
sumably, one who has been sentenced for some very
grave offence. I remember sufficient on this point to


HALF A BIRD IN THE HAND 187
“There's this to be remembered, sir,” he said at
last. “Polbeck admitted to us that all he was to get
out of the job was five hundred pounds.”
“Exactly!” said Smith. “I’m on the same line of
thought, Styler. And I’ll act on it to-morrow.”
In pursuance of this resolve, Smith was at the
telegraph office as soon as it opened next morning,
and by five minutes past eight he had sent off a wire
to Darrell Tress asking him if he would authorize
him, Smith, to lay out a couple of hundred pounds in
relation to the Kesteven affair. Darrell's answer, de-
livered to Smith as he and Styler sat at breakfast,
was characteristic. Smith could lay out a couple of
thousand if he liked; he, Darrell, was only too de-
lighted to hear that he was at work.
“An excellent thing, Styler, to have a young man
of great possessions behind you,” remarked Smith
dryly, as he handed Darrell's telegram to his clerk.
“Now we shall be able to tackle our mariner friend
to some purpose. So far as I could judge from what I
saw of Captain Pulbeck last night, I should say that
he's the sort of man who would certainly hold that
even half a bird in the hand is worth a dozen in the
bush. We'll try him, anyway.”
A visit to a local banker, the exchange of a tele-
gram with Smith's own bankers in London, placed a
couple of crisp hundred-pound notes in his hands long
before noon. And with noon came Captain Polbeck,
alert and ready to carry out his share of the trans-
action. He showed no surprise when Smith and Sty-


188 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
ler conducted him to a quiet corner of the smoking-
room of their hotel, and bestowed hospitality upon
him in the form of rum and cigars. But his surprise
was deep and long and continuous when Smith, with
legal lucidity and thoroughness, told him the plain
truth, and his face grew longer and longer as he real-
ized that his chance of earning five hundred pounds
for a comparatively easy job was slipping, nay, had
already slipped away. His rum grew cold, his cigar
went out, he looked at these two much-too-smart
gentlemen with something very like disgust.
“My luck!” he said with sudden despair. “I was
a-goin’ to buy the little house I live in with that there
five hundred! Well!—I always felt there was some-
thing undeniably risky in that business. All off, is it?
Then I may as well bid you good day.”
“Not yet, captain,” said Smith. “Take a fresh
cigar, replenish your glass—and look at these
articles.”
He held the two bank-notes under Polbeck's eyes,
and the sea-captain started.
“Yours!—if you'll tell us what we want to know,”
continued Smith. “Come, now, you're not bound to
any of these people. Tell us all you know—every
detail—about this affair, and when you’ve done you
can pick those notes up. See!”
He laid the bank-notes on the table and set a tumb-
ler on them. And Styler, watching Captain Polbeck
with a keen gaze, saw his eyes glisten.
“Well, gentlemen,” said he, evidently greatly re-
lieved, “that's a fair offer, and I'll take it. But don't


HALF A BIRD IN THE HAND 189
you be disappointed if I don't seem to be able to tell
a great deal. I’ll tell you the truth, anyhow.”
“That’ll do,” remarked Simth. “That's all we
want.”
“Well, then, 'twas this here way,” continued Pol-
beck. “Last time I was in Georgetown, which is about
four months ago, a stranger that sort of cultivated my
acquaintance at a certain tavern, asked me if I’d like
to earn five hundred pound. Nat’rally, I said I would
—if the job was all square. Then he said it was to
help in the escape of an Englishman who'd been
wrongfully convicted in France and sent to this
French convict settlement at Cayenne—for life.”
“For life!” exclaimed Smith.
“For life, sir. A commercial offence—fraud o'
some sort—nothing in the way of murder, nor yet vio-
lence, otherwise I wouldn’t ha’ touched the matter,
even if it was a wrongful conviction, which it might be
and again it mightn't. However, being what this man
said it was, and an Englishman being concerned, and
Cayenne being another name for hell, I agreed. Then
we went into details. This man said that there was
powerful and influential folks here in England as
would find the money necessary, which was three
thousand. I was to act as go-between, and carry that
money in gold back to Georgetown. He wanted to
know some place here where I could meet the agents
of these folks to take the money. So as I live in that
village where you was last night, I suggested the King
o’ Denmark as a likely place, and after reckoning
dates and times up, I told him I could look in there


190 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
every night between the twelfth and eighteenth of May
this spring. And every night I have looked in, and
last night you turned up—and that's really all I
know,” concluded Captain Polbeck, eyeing the bank-
notes. “Can't think of any more, nohow.”
“Did you hear the name of the man whose escape
was being planned?” askedSmith.
“Never, sir! All I heard was that he was to be
brought to me at Georgetown and that I was to land
him in England—Falmouth, Plymouth, here—any-
where.”
“Who was the man who was arranging things?”
asked Styler.
“Couldn't say, neither. He was a fellow that used
to drop in at this tavern I told you of a good many
seafaring men goes there, and it strikes me he was on
the look-out for a man likely to do the job.”
“Did he by any chance tell you how long this
Englishman had been at Cayenne?” asked Smith.
“Ah, now!” answered Polbeck. “That he did men-
tion! Six years.”
Smith asked the captain no further questions.
When Polbeck had taken the bank-notes and departed,
he turned to Styler.
“Now then!” he said. “The next thing will be-a
search of the French criminal records. Nice job, Sty-
ler—but it can and must be done. It’s our only
chance, unless 99
A waiter came up to the corner in which they sat,
carrying a telegram on his salver.
|


CHAPTER XX
THE WREATH AND THE CHARM
SMITH deliberately folded up Darrell's telegram, put
it carefully away in one pocket, and from another
drew out a map which he proceeded to spread over
the table at which he and Styler sat.
“Styler,” he said, “we must be off to Lynchfield at
once. If there's anything to hear in connexion with
Tickell's death we must hear it. And the thing is—
how to get there as soon as possible? Here we are, at
Weymouth — there's Lynchfield — sixty to seventy
miles away as I make it. And so far as I can see,
it’s a roundabout, cross-country railway journey, in-
volving several changes. What about a motorcar?”
“A motor-car for you—I can ride my motor-bike,”
replied Styler. “It’s half-past twelve exactly—we
can be there by four o'clock. And you wouldn’t do
it any quicker by train. There's a garage close by
this hotel—shall I go and order the best car I can
get?”
“At once,” agreed Smith. “Meanwhile I’ll settle
our bills and have some food put up for us—we must
lunch on the way. This death of Tickell is important,
Styler—it’ll lead to fresh developments. Off you
go!” -
Master and man spent the next three hours in rac-
ing across slices of two counties and the whole of one.


THE WREATH AND THE CHARM 193
Just before the town clock struck four they dashed up
to the police station at Lynchfield and were presently
shown into the presence of the superintendent who
had accompanied Smith and Hextall and Darrell to
the cottage into which Tickell had been carried after
his accident. The superintendent recognized Smith at
OHCe.
“Ah,” he said. “I suppose you’ve heard, then?
The man's dead.”
“Mr. Tress wired to me,” answered Smith. “You
understand?—I’m looking after this affair in his in-
terests. Tickell died suddenly, I suppose?”
“Complications set in, and he died very suddenly
this morning—collapse,” said the superintendent
laconically. “So—there's an end of that.”
Smith was about to remark that this was probably
but a beginning, but he remembered that the official
mind only works in a certain way, and he refrained.
“I suppose you’ve no further information?” he
asked. “Nothing more come to light—here?”
“Nothing! We’ve heard nothing—found out noth-
ing. Have you?” replied the superintendent, turning
on his questioner quizzically. “You amateur gentle-
men—excuse the phrase!—are sometimes better
hands than we are, you know.”
“Nothing about Tickell,” answered Smith. “I
know no more about him than I did when I was here
the other day.”
“Well, it's a queer business, in my opinion,” re-
marked the superintendent. “There's been a lot of
publicity in the newspapers—I’ve been nearly mad.


194 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
dened by those confounded reporters!—and I sup-
pose folks have talked the thing well over, from
Land's End to John o'Groats, and yet nobody's come
forward to identify this man. It's extraordinary!”
“Nobody's come forward to identify Kesteven, for
that matter,” said Smith.
“There you are again!” exclaimed the superin-
tendent. “Two of 'em! Might have dropped from
the clouds, or been thrown up by the sea, for anything
that anybody seems to know of 'em. Surely some-
body must have known Kesteven and Tickell as well!
Thev may, of course, have been living under assumed
names of late, but then, we’ve had their portraits in
every newspaper that prints such things. And yet
nobody comes forward to tell anything about them!
Now, didn't Mr. Tress say at that inquest that he
met Kesteven at some race-meeting? Oh, yes, New-
bury—well, if Kesteven was a frequenter of race-
courses, somebody must have known him. What's
this silence mean?”
“That's is precisely what I'm endeavouring to find
out,” replied Smith. “And as there's evidently noth-
ing to be learnt here, I'll journey further.”
“Oh, we know nothing,” said the superintendent.
“All we know is that the man suspected of shooting
Kesteven came into our hands as the result of an ac.
cident and has died from his injuries without our
learning a single thing about him. That's all. And
as I said—there's an end of that. But now, look
here,” he added, as Smith began making for the door;
“between you and me, Mr. Smith, do you think this


196 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
his car outside the Lynne Arms and making inquiry
as to the reason of this commotion he was informed
by the landlord, who came out to greet him and Styler,
as well-remembered customers, that Kesteven's body
had been buried that afternoon, and that all these
folk had come from far and near out of sheer
curiosity. º
“Quiet affair it's been, sir, apart from all this,” he
went on to say, with a wave of the hand towards the
people, many of whom were now making towards his
own door. “Nobody there, sir, except Mr. Tress, in
the way of mourners—Mr. Tress and one or two of his
servants, anyway. Queer thing, sir, that no relatives
or friends of his shouldn't turn up.”
“Very!” replied Smith. He got out of the motor-
car and signed to Styler to follow him. Together
they crossed the road to the churchyard and went up
to Kesteven's grave. The sexton had just finished re-
laying the turf upon it, and on this, as Smith ap-
proached, he was placing a wreath of violets.
“Look at that, Styler!” whispered Smith, as they
reached the spot. “A wreath of violets! Now, I won-
der who remembered Kesteven with such sufficient
sentiment as to induce him or her to send that?”
Styer stooped down and turned the wreath over.
“No card fixed to it, Mr. Smith,” he observed.
Smith looked at the sexton, who was collecting his
tools.
“Do you know who put this wreath on the grave?”
he asked.


THE WREATH AND THE CHARM 1.97
.. do, sir,” answered the sexton, promptly. “I
did.”
“I suppose somebody sent it to you to place there,
then?” asked Smith. “Come, I’m not asking out of
any idle curiosity. You've seen me before, you know
—at the inquest.”
“Oh, I don't mind telling aught that I know,” re-
plied the man readily, slipping into his pocket a
couple of coins which Smith offered him. “I don’t
know that there's any secret about it. If you’ll come
this way, sir, I’ll show you.”
He led them up the churchyard path into a gloomy
chamber in the base of the tower, a place evidently
set apart for spades, mattocks, shovels, cords, all the
gruesome paraphernalia necessary for preparing the
last homes of the dead. And there he pointed to a
cardboard box which lay carelessly thrown on an old
beech table, with a crumpled sheet of typewriting
paper lying at its side.
“I got that box, with that there wreath in it, by this
morning's post,” he said. “And that letter lying on top
of the wreath, with a five-shilling postal order pinned
to. You can see what the letter says—it's in printed
characters, like.”
Smith picked up the sheet of paper and read the
type-written message.
“Will the sexton at Lynne please place this wreath
on John Kesteven's grave?”
“Of course,” remarked the sexton, “it doesn’t say
who it comes from, do it, now?”


THE WREATH AND THE CHARM 1.99
“Just so,” assented Smith. “And it's in that quar-
ter that we’re going to make some small inquiries.
Now, Styler, let's get back to town; there's nothing to
be done here, as the Tresses have gone. I shall let this
man drive me to the railway; you, I suppose, will
stick to your machine. To-night we'll take a rest—
to-morrow morning meet me at the Gloucester Road
District station at ten o’clock,”
Then Smith got into the car and went off to Lynne
station, reflecting upon the wreath of violets. Some-
body had felt sufficient regret for John Kesteven to
make him or her punctilious about sending a few
flowers to lay on his lonely grave. But who? And
might there not be a clue to something important
through these flowers?
“And if there is,” he mused, as the next train car-
ried him off to London, “it shall go hard if Styler and
I don't unearth it. One thing's certain—that violet
wreath didn't come from any of the Tress folk.”
Meanwhile Styler, feeling the need of refreshment,
and reflecting that a square meal would help him on
his way to town, was pushing his motor-bicycle back
to the inn, intent upon securing food and drink. On
his way he came across the Lynne police-inspector,
who smiled knowingly at sight of him.
“Still on the look round?” observed he, who knew
well enough that Styler and his master were what he
called amateur dabblers in his own science. “Heard
anything?”
“Nothing, but that Tickell's dead,” replied Styler.


CHAPTER XXI
THE MIDDAY SPECIAL
STYLER took the little gold charm into his left hand
and turned it over gingerly with the tip of his right
fore-finger.
“Foreign stuff, that, inspector,” he remarked.
“Delicate work, isn't it? Indian arabesque, I should
say—I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Old, too—
look how the carving, or whatever they'd call it, is
worn. And this bit of a link that's hung on to it—
worn as thin as tissue paper!”
“Ah, that’s how it came to be broken off from a
chain or something of that sort,” remarked the in-
spector. “We’ve looked carefully for more links of
that chain, but we haven't found anything, However,
—that thing's something to go on, you know, Mr.
Styler.”
“Depends—depends!” replied Styler. “A good
many innocent people might have dropped a little
trifle like this. I suppose a lot of folk walk about
those woods?”
“No they don't,” said the inspector. “Old Mr.
Tress, the present young man's uncle, was mighty par-
ticular about that park and grounds, and he wouldn't
have anybody in 'em, because of his rare trees and
shrubs, and so on, and that rule's been kept up—no-
body except the Lynne Court folks go about there.


THE MIDDAY SPECIAL 203
“Not a sign,” replied the inspector. “I saw to that
myself. And as soon as this thing was found I went
over to Lynchfield to see if this man Tickell had any
fal-lals of this sort on his watch-chain. But all the
chain he had was a plain steel curb. And it didn't
come off anything that Kesteven wore, neither, and
nobody up at the Court recognized it—I took it up and
showed it round.”
Styler secretly despised this method of investiga-
tion, but he held his tongue on that point. The claims
of a hungry stomach were beginning to assert them-
selves within him. -
“Well, take care of it,” he said, making for the
door. “You never know what big results arise out of
small things of that sort. I’ll keep my eyes open, and
if I ever hear anything I’ll meet you as I hope you’ll
meet me. As you say we're all in the same boat.”
Then he went to the Lynne Arms and ate and drank,
and kept his ears open to the talk which was going on
in that crowded hostelry, and heard a great many
startling and original theories, and convinced himself
that nothing is so pleasing to the average idler as to
ventilate his notions on things which he does not
understand, and eventually he journeyed leisurely
back to town and went early to bed. And next morn-
ing, clothed in his most respectable garments, instead
of in his motor-bicycling habiliments, he met Smith
at Gloucester Road station.
“That's right, Styler,” said Smith, who in his turn
appeared in highly correct attire. “You did well to
think of that. We've got to intrude ourselves upon


204 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
severely proper circles to-day—at least, I think so.
And first of all, this florist's. We must know, if pos-
sible, who sent that wreath. Of course,” he went on,
as master and man walked together up Gloucester
Road, “of course, you've formed some opinion on that
subject?”
“Not much,” answered Styler. “It hasn't quite
come into my field of active operation, if I may put
it that way, sir—but I suppose it will in a few
minutes. If I were to hear that the wreath had been
sent by Miss Brock I should know what to think. I
should also know what to think if I found that it had
been sent by Mrs. Renton, who certainly went to meet
Miss Brock the other night. But—we shan’t hear that
it came from either of them, Mr. Smith.”
“You think not, Styler?” exclaimed Smith. “Now,
why, pray?”
“Both of 'em's a deal too fly, sir,” answered Styler.
“Leastways, if I’m any judge of character.”
Smith ruminated over this opinion until they
arrived at the florist's shop. On its threshold he also
arrived at the conclusion that his clerk was probably
right. Mrs. Renton was certainly a woman who was
well able to hold her own; Miss Brock, just as cer-
tainly, looked the sort of young person who could not
only be secret but sly.
“I dare say you're right, Styler,” he remarked.
“Now we shall see.”
In a few minutes Styler's intuition had been proved
to be correct. A courteous manageress, to whom
Smith presented his card and with whom he ex-


THE MIDDAY SPECIAL 205
changed a few words in private, gave the investigators
all the information of which she was possessed. And
as Styler had anticipated, that information amounted
to little, and proved nothing. All that the mana-
geress could tell them was that on the day but one
previous, a boy in buttons (whom she was quite sure
she had never seen before, and certainly could not
recognize again, all boys in buttons, in her opinion,
being much of a muchness) came to the shop (a large,
busy, and fashionable establishment) and left a note,
which she now produced to her visitors. The note en-
closed another note, addressed to The Sexton, Lynne,
Surrey, and was sealed. The covering note, type-
written, and bearing no name or address, simply
asked that a wreath of violets, to the value of one
pound (enclosed in the form of a sovereign) should
be made up and dispatched to the address on the
second note, which was to be placed in the box with
the wreath.
“All of which was done at once—the box being
sent by that afternoon’s parcels post,” added the
manageress, obviously charmed to hear of a supposed
mystery. “But as to the sender?—sorry I can’t tell
i. more, sir. If I should ever recognize that
oy 22
“As you remarked before, ma'am, all boys in but-
tons are very much alike,” said Smith gravely. “And
in these quarters of the town there are, I believe,
many hundreds of ‘em.” -
He steered Styler out of the shop, and in the direc-
tion of the District Railway.


THE MIDDAY SPECIAL 207
to deal, is, I presume, a person who wanted to get hold
of the certificate which Kesteven was hiding so care-
fully in order to destroy it. Or, at any rate, to take
good care that it didn't come to light. Now, I'm more
than ever certain that there's some extraordinary con-
nexion between the murder of Kesteven and the mar-
riage to which this certificate refers, and we’re now
going to the church whereat that marriage was cele-
brated to see what we can find out. And you can hail
that taxi-cab; in its comparative privacy we will just
take another look at the copy which you have of that
certificate.”
“Where is he to drive?” asked Styler, as they got
into the cab. “I don’t know where that church is.”
“I do,” remarked Smith. “And a very interesting
old spot it is, too. Tell him to pull up half-way along
Cornhill—we'll walk the rest. Now,” he went on,
as the taxicab moved off, “give me that copy, Styler,
and let me refresh my memory.”
Styler produced his notebook and opened it at the
page on which he had made a copy of the certificate.
Smith considered it at his leisure as they went City-
wards and at last drew his clerk's attention to various
points. .
“Now, Styler,” he said. “Let’s go through this,
item by item. This is a copy of a certificate of a mar-
riage solemnized at St. Eanswythe's Church, in the
City of London, on the 16th October 1904—that's
nearly ten years ago. The contracting parties were
Edward Charleston Legette, bachelor, and Maud
Eleanor Rivers, spinster. They were both of full age.


THE MIDDAY SPECIAL 209
“There are several ancient City churches, Styler,
tucked away into such out-of-the-way corners as
these,” said Smith. “Quaint old places they are, with
Sunday congregations of about a dozen. And here
we are,” he continued as they turned their twentieth
corner and emerged upon a little square in which a
solitary plane-tree rose from a railed-in plot of turf
surrounded by grey walls. “Here's St. Eanswythe,
Virgin and Martyr, and there, I take it, is the vicar-
age. We—”
A newsboy came yelling at the top of his voice
down an adjacent alley.
“Midday Special! Lynne Court Mystery! Sensa-
tional Development! Special!” Smith snatched a
paper from the lad and flung him some coppers.
“I expect it's nothing but the Tickell affair,” he
said doubtingly. “What else—” - -
The next minute he thrust the paper in front of Sty-
ler's eyes. And Styler forgot all else as he stared at
three lines of black capitals.
LYNNE COURT AFFAIR.
THE ABSCONDING GOVERNESS
MISS BROCK FOUND MURDERED
IN HYDE PARK.


CHAPTER XXII
CONCERNING MISS BROCK
SMITH hurriedly glanced over the two or three lines of
type which lay half lost in the blankness of the stop-
press space, passed the paper to Styler, and with a
muttered exclamation turned away in the direction of
the old church. And Styler smoothed out the paper
and read:
“This morning, soon after daybreak, the body of a
young woman, who had evidently been stabbed to
death, was found near the Reformer's Tree, in Hyde
Park, where it had presumably been lying for some
hours. It has now been identified as that of Miss
Brock, the governess who disappeared from Lynne
Court almost immediately after the mysterious mur-
der of the man known as John Kesteven.”
Styler crumpled the newspaper into a pocket and
went after his master, who at once pointed to the door
of the vicarage adjoining the church.
“One thing at a time, Styler,” said Smith. “We’ll
carry out the job that brought us to the City before we
even discuss Miss Brock's death. But I will make one
remark—if Miss Brock has really been murdered,
then I think we shall find ourselves face to face with
some strange developments, and, maybe, we shall
have to start our investigations all over again. And


CONCERNING MISS BROCK 211
—who knows?—we may learn something pertinent
here.”
The sending in of Smith's card resulted in an in-
vitation to him and Styler to step into an old-fash-
ioned, book-lined parlour where there presently came
to them a cleryman, at sight of whom Smith im-
mediately felt a sense of disappointment. For the
Vicar of St. Eanswythe's was comparatively young,
and suggested, somehow or other, an atmosphere of
freshness, and Smith at once jumped to the conclusion
that he was not the man who had celebrated the mar-
riage ceremony into which he and Styler were pro-
fessionally inquiring.
“I don’t know,” said Smith, going straight to the
point, “if I have the pleasure of seeing the Reverend
Gervase Bright?”
The vicar smiled, shaking his head.
“Mr. Bright died two years ago,” he answered. “I
am his successor.”
“I am sorry to hear that Mr. Bright is dead,” re-
marked Smith. “I particularly wished to see him on
a professional matter. But there used to be two
people connected in some way with this church who
are, perhaps, alive?—a man named Anthony Denton,
a woman named Sarah Giddins.”
“Clerk and church-cleaner,” replied the vicar.
“They are dead, too—I buried them myself.”
Smith shook his head, and drew out Styler's copy
of the marriage certificate. “That's unfortunate,” he
said. “I wanted to interview some person who was
actually present at the marriage ceremony referred to


212 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
in this copy of a certificate which was, as you see,
issued by the late Mr. Bright. You, of course, don't
know anything about it?”
The vicar, who had glanced at the copy, elevated
his eyebrows and uttered a sharp exclamation.
“Oh, don't I, though!” he said, with a laugh. “It's
rather odd, but I had an inquiry about that very mar-
riage—let me see it again—yes, marriage of Edward
Charleston Legette and Maud Eleanor Rivers—only
the other day. Day before yesterday, to be precise.”
“Had you really?” exclaimed Smith. “Now, do
you know, that interests me—and my clerk, Mr. Sty-
ler—very greatly. May I ask who the person was
who made that inquiry? I can assure you that I don’t
ask out of any idle curiosity.”
The vicar, who had already noticed the eminently
legal character of the address on Smith's card, re-
sponded readily.
“The inquirer was a young lady,” he answered. “I
think I can describe her. Rather slight, rather pretty,
light-haired, grey eyes—they might be a little inclined
to blue—quietly dressed, rather shy and reserved in
manner. Do you happen to recognize the descrip-
tion?”
Smith looked at Styler. Both shook their heads.
Then Styler drew out the newspaper and handed it to
Smith, who held it before the vicar's astonished eyes.
“We recognize your description so well as to be-
live that it applies to the unfortunate young woman
who is mentioned here,” said Smith. “You see who
{


CONCERNING MISS BROCK 213
she was. Did she by any chance give her name to
you, now?”
The vicar, who was greatly shocked, took the news-
paper from Smith's hand and read the brief an-
nouncement of the discovery in Hyde Park for him-
self. He handed it back with a shake of the head.
“No!” he answered. “She gave me no name. She
asked to see me—yes, it was day before yesterday,
about four o’clock in the afternoon—and she pro-
duced a certificate of that marriage—”
“A certificate?” exclaimed Smith, with a glance at
Styler. “You mean a proper certificate?—not a
rough copy, like this?”
“I mean a certificate—such as is commonly spoken
of as marriage lines—duly written out and signed by
my predecessor, Mr. Bright,” answered the vicar.
“She wished to compare it with the entry in the regis-
ter of marriages. She did so—under my personal
supervision. And like you, she was evidently sorry
to hear that Mr. Bright and the two witnesses to the
marriage were all dead.”
“Miss Brock, without a doubt,” muttered Smith.
“But what she can have been after—may we inspect
that register?” he added, suddenly interrupting him-
self. “I should like to see the handwriting of the two
parties chiefly concerned.”
The vicar produced the register from a safe, and
Smith and Styler presently bent over the entry and
examined the signatures. Each had taken care to
make himself familiar with some specimens of Kest-
even's handwriting; each was wondering if he would


CONCERNING MISS BROCK 215
the little garden which fenced it off from the pave-
ment, the door opened, and Darrell Tress and Hextall
appeared in company with an obviously distressed
and concerned landlady, who was talking with great
volubility. At the sight of the two new-comers, she
showed signs of irritation and made as if to retreat
into her house, but a word from Hextall stopped
her.
“That's all right,” he said, reassuringly. “These
gentlemen are in charge of this case on Mr. Tress's
behalf. And as we can tell them all that you’ve told
us, they won't trouble you.”
“And very glad I shall be!” exclaimed the woman.
“I’ve never had any peace since seven o’clock this
morning, what with police, and detectives, and news-
paper gentlemen. Of course, as this gentleman was
the poor young woman's employer, I don't mind tell-
ing him anything, but you know all I know now,
and 99
“Just so,” interrupted Hextall, motioning the two
fresh arrivals to withdraw. “We won’t trouble you
further just now. Come away, Smith,” he went on,
taking the barrister's arm and leading him down the
ath. “We’ve got to know all there is to know there,
p eye g 9
and I can inform you. That woman's half crazy over
the business—there were three men here when we
22 -
Carne.
“And no doubt somebody—if the men were detec-
tives—has examined whatever Miss Brock left there?”
said Smith.
vºry')
|


216 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“They have—the police have, at any rate,” an-
swered Hextall. “And they found nothing. And this
landlady knows next to nothing, either. Still, she
knows something. This much,” he continued, as all
four left the garden and formed a group outside the
gate. “Miss Brock arrived here at this house the
other afternoon—the afternoon of the day on which
she disappeared from Lynne Court. She had once
stayed here for a month, two years ago, so she was
known. She told the landlady that she wanted rooms
again, and she took the drawing-room floor—two
rooms. She had no luggage with her—she said it
would come on later, but it hasn't arrived. She didn't
go out until next day—then she went out about the
middle of the afternoon. She returned about eight in
the evening and soon after she got in she was visited
by a lady who was certainly Mrs. Renton. We, of
course, know that—Styler there saw Mrs. Renton ar-
rive.”
“At eight-twenty-five, precisely remarked Styler.
“Miss Brock went in at eight-fifteen.”
“Mrs. Renton remained with Miss Brock for some
time,” continued Hextall. “Of course, the landlady
can’t tell anything about that, because there was noth-
ing in the visit to excite any suspicion. But she her-
self admitted Mrs. Renton and she saw her again as
she was leaving, so there’ll be no difficulty about prov-
ing that Mrs. Renton did come here—whatever she
came for.”
“She won't deny that she came,” said Smith. “Go
on!”
{


218 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“She’d a good deal of money on her. But beyond
that telegram, no papers,” continued Hextall. “What-
ever the object of the murderer was, however, it cer-
tainly wasn't robbery. All her money and valuables
were untouched. And yet—they said that there were
signs which showed that her pockets and clothing had
been searched.”
“Aye, to be sure!” said Smith, with a glance at
Styler. “I’m sure they would be. Well, it's no use
standing here. There's nothing more you learnt from
the landlady?”
“Nothing,” answered Hextall. “But what are you
going to do?”
Before Smith could reply to this question a taxi-cab
came swiftly round the corner, and Fowler's face was
suddenly seen at its window. Seeing his master, he
stopped the cab and springing out hastened to Darrell
with an expression of grave concern.
“Can you and Dr. Hextall come home, sir?” he
said anxiously. “You’re needed.”


CHAPTER XXIII
SMITH REPORTS PROGRESS
DARRELL TRESS started out of the gloomy silence
which he had maintained while Hextall and Smith
talked, and he glanced at his valet with suspicion.
“What is it now, Fowler?” he demanded. “Some-
thing else gone wrong? I’m about sick of this! What's
happened?”
Fowler gave the other members of the group a com-
prehensive glance.
“It’s Walters, sir,” he answered.
Darrell started again—violently, this time. He
turned to Hextall and his face paled.
“Walters!” he exclaimed. “What 93.
He stopped abruptly, still staring at Hextall. And
Hextall spoke quickly to the valet.
“What is it, Fowler?” he asked. “What about
Walters?”
“I think he's gone out of his mind, sir,” replied
Fowler. “Seems like it, anyway. After you and Mr.
Tress had gone out this morning, we heard about Miss
Brock, sir—a boy came round selling newspapers,
and I got one. And a bit after that I found Walters
sitting in the hall, crying and moaning. Then he be-
gan to say all sorts of queer things; mixing a lot of
things up. I made out that he was in love with Miss
Brock, and it seemed to me that the sudden news of


SMITH REPORTS PROGRESS 221
tal balance by the news of her tragic death, and had at
once plunged into a mass of morbid imaginings con-
cerning the mystery, out of which one impression
would certainly stand clear—that he had actually
seen Paquita with a revolver in her hand on the night
of the murder of Kesteven. And that impression
would lead to further imaginings—he had probably
seen some deep-laid scheme of murder in which Kest-
even was but one victim and Miss Brock another, and
his promises of secrecy and silence had been at once
forgotten, and he had rushed off to the police to blurt
out all he knew.
“An awkward situation,” he continued, after a
brief silence; “but I don't think the police would ar-
rest your sister on what Walters can tell about that
night. All the same, I'm afraid we must be prepared
to meet some inquiry from them.”
Darrell growled resentfully. He began to mutter
complaints about interference: he had left Lynne
Court because of the publicity drawn upon it by the
Kesteven affair, and now more publicity was going
to come upon him in London. He ought, he said, to
have followed his first instinct, and taken his sister
and brother away to the continent.
“I’m afraid you couldn't have done that,” said Hex-
tall. “You’ll be wanted as a witness more than once
yet, you know. And, of course, we never foresaw that
things would turn out in this way, nor imagined that
Walters was in love with the governess. After all,
he may not have gone to the police.”


222 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
But an hour later, as they were discussing matters
with Smith and Styler in Darrell's room at the flat
in Queen Anne Street, Fowler announced two visitors,
who, on being shown in, proved to be from New Scot-
land Yard. Walters had gone straight to the police
headquarters on leaving the flat, and had poured out
all his story. And now the authorities wanted to
know. With the usual official caution they wanted
to know by degrees. They wanted to know if Walters
was in his right mind; if he had any justification for
his statement; if there was anything further to be
learnt of the incident which he had reported.
“He tells us that he has already reported what he
saw to you, Mr. Tress, and also to you, Dr. Hextall,”
said the elder of the two visitors. “So you're as con-
versant with the details as we are. You must admit
that there's evidence there which might connect Miss
Tress with Kesteven's death? She was around there
with a revolver 99
“I never yet heard of a somnambulist shooting a
wide-awake person!” interrupted Smith, cynically.
“I should say such a thing was never known to med-
ical science! The thing's absurd on the face of it.
It would argue that 99
The detective smiled even more cynically than
Smith.
“A moment!” he said, lifting a finger. “We don’t
know that Miss Tress was in a state of somnambulism.
This man Walters didn’t tell us that Miss Tress was
walking in her sleep. All that Walters tells amounts
to this—‘On such and such a night, at such and such


SMITH REPORTS PROGRESS 223
a time, I saw Miss Tress come from the direction of the
spinney in which Kesteven's dead body was afterwards
found, and she had a revolver in her hand!’ Do you
see? Now, if a man is found in a particular place,
shot dead, and it is proved that a certain person was
near that place and in possesion of a revolver at a
time approximating to the time of death—what then?
For anything we know to the contrary, Miss Tress may
have had her own reasons for shooting this man Kest-
even. And we do not know that she is given to som-
nambulism.”
Hextall, who had exchanged a whisper with Smith,
drew the visitors’ attention to himself.
“I think—having consulted with Mr. Tress and
with our friend Mr. Smith—that I had better tell you
all I know,” he said. “Mr. Tress is naturally very
anxious about his sister's safety, and he is desirous
that we should not seem to make any mystery or show
any attempt at concealment. So I may as well inform
you that I am aware, from experience, of Miss Tress's
tendency to somnambulism, and that I am absolutely
certain that she was walking in her sleep when Wal-
ters saw her.”
He went on to detail his own experiences with regard
to what he had seen on the last night of his stay at
Lynne Court; in his desire to tell the whole truth, he
told of the discovery of the revolver and its one dis-
charged cartridge. The detectives listened in silence
and made no sign, and as they gave no immediate an-
swer when Hextall had finished his statement, Darrell
grew impatient.


224 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Look here!” he said suddenly. “I want to know
where I am! We’ve told you all we know—at least,
Dr. Hextall's told you; and we can’t tell more because
we don't know more. What I want to know is—are
you going to arrest my sister?”
The elder detective smiled. -
“Not at present, at any rate, Mr. Tress,” he an-
swered. “I told you we came to make inquiries, and
we've made them. All we have to do now is to make
our report. If we want your sister at any time—for
further inquiries, you know,” he added, with a look
at Smith—“well, I suppose we shall find her here, or
at Lynne Court.”
“She's not going to run away, anyhow,” said Dar-
rell doggedly. “But if you'll take my advice, you’ll
turn your attention to finding out who really did kill
Kesteven, and who's killed Miss Brock, too, instead
of running after false scents. I’m not a clever chap,
but I’ll lay a thousand pounds to sixpence that who-
ever killed Kesteven killed Miss Brock, too! And if
you’ve got that fool Walters at your headquarters you
can tell him that he'd better not turn up here again—
I won’t have him back.”
The detectives smiled and went away, and when
they were clear of the room Smith motioned the others
to resume their seats at the table round which they
had been discussing the situation previous to the
official visit.
“Now, look here!” he said. “We’d better face mat-
ters. I'm afraid—I’m very much afraid!—that this
will result in Miss Tress's arrest. You know what


226 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
sion, set off for Weymouth, intending to hand that
sum of money over to Captain Polbeck in furtherance
of a scheme devised for the escape of an unknown
man—whom we will call X—from the French penal
colony in Guiana.
“Second. I have no doubt whatever that Kesteven
and Miss Brock were in possession of some secret re-
lating to the marriage celebrated at St. Eanswythe's
Church in the City, between two people who then
called themselves Edward Charleston Legette and
Maud Eleanor Rivers. Miss Brock, without a doubt,
knew that Kesteven possessed the certificate of that
marriage, that it was concealed in a suit of clothes
which was left in this flat; without a doubt she left
Lynne Court after his death in order to come to this
flat and abstract it.
“Third. I say that I personally have no doubts
about these two points. Now I come to more debatable
ground. I ask myself two questions. One is: Is the
matter of the convict Englishman in French Guiana—
whom we call X—mixed up with the matter of the
marriage certificate which Kesteven guarded so jeal-
ously, and Miss Brock was so anxious to secure after
his death? The other is: Were Kesteven and Miss
Brock both murdered by a person or persons who de-
sired to silence them because of their knowledge of
these matters? Wery well—personally, I don't find
much difficulty in answering these questions. I an-
swer them both—both, mind!—in the affirmative. In
my opinion the whole secret of the mystery about
these murders could be laid bare if we had with us


SMITH REPORTS PROGRESS 227
the man, whoever he may be, who is now confined in
the French Guiana convict prisons! He, probably,
knows—knows! And—”
A discreet tap at the door heralded the entrance of
Fowler, who came quietly in and closed it behind him.
“Mrs Renton has called, sir,” he said, advancing
to Darrell. “She wishes me to say that she is very
anxious indeed to see you and Dr. Hextall and Mr.
Smith—at once.”


CHAPTER XXIV
MRS. RENTON's story
BEFore Darrell had sufficiently recovered from his
astonishment to give Fowler an answer, Smith, who
was sitting next to him, touched him lightly on the
arm.
“Allow me, Tress,” he said. “Where,” he went on,
turning to the valet, “where is Mrs. Renton?”
“Drawing-room, sir,” replied Fowler promptly.
“Ask her to wait a moment until Mr. Tress is dis-
engaged,” said Smith. He turned to his companions,
when Fowler had left the room, and shook his head at
them warningly. “A word of caution to all of you!”
he continued. “Mrs. Renton, of course, will come in
here—be careful what you say, any one of you. In
fact—say nothing. Let me hear what she says. Be-
cause, remember, that, as far as we know, Mrs. Ren-
ton is not aware that Styler saw her drive up to the
house in Kensington at which Miss Brock was staying.
We have not told that to anybody, you know—neither
to the police nor the newspapers. All the same, I'll
lay anything she's come here to see us about that very
matter. Now, Tress, have her in—and remember
what I’ve said. Let her talk—we'll listen.”
Mrs. Renton, presently ushered in by Fowler,
looked eagerly at the four men who stood up at her
w


MRS. RENTON'S STORY 229
entrance. And at sight of Styler, she hesitated and
half drew back.
“My clerk and assistant, Mrs. Renton,” said Smith
hastily, waving a hand at Styler. “A perfectly safe
and confidential young man, ma'am—you need have
no fear of speaking before him.”
Mrs. Renton bowed and took the chair which Hex-
tall placed for her at the end of the oblong table at
which the men had been sitting. She threw back her
veil and revealed a somewhat excited and perturbed
face.
“I came here,” she said, “because I had an idea
that I might find Dr. Hextall and Mr. Smith with you,
Mr. Tress, and, and—in short, I’m awfully bothered,
and I want some advice. About this—this dreadful
affair of Miss Brock, you know. Of course, you've
seen the latest newspaper?”
“No-at least, I’m sure we've not seen anything
that you're referring to,” replied Smith, taking upon
himself the spokesmanship of the party. “The last
we saw, I think, was the midday special. Nothing
much in that, you know.”
“Oh, but here's something very much later!” ex-
claimed Mrs. Renton, producing a folded newspaper
from her bag. “I bought that an hour ago—it was
reading what it says there that brought me to you—I
really am concerned, because I don't want bringing
into this horrible affair, and I really don't know why
I should be.”
She passed the newspaper over to Smith who
promptly read the passage to which she pointed.


230 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
THE HYDE PARK MURDER.
“Latest inquiries into the death of Miss Brock, the
Lynne Court governess, show that the victim had taken
rooms at Laburnum Terrace, a quiet street off Kens-
ington Square, two days ago. She had had one visitor
there whom the landlady, Mrs. Hodgson, is able to
describe fully. A more pertinent revelation in con-
nexion with the mystery is that on the evening preced-
ing the murder—yesterday evening, in fact—Mrs.
Hodgson's servant saw Miss Brock enter a taxi-cab at
the corner of Laburnum Terrace, in company with a
tall man whom she recollects as being tall, elderly, and
of military appearance. The police are hard at work
endeavouring to trace the lady caller, the driver of the
taxi-cab, and the man who was in Miss Brock's com-
any.”
Smith laid the newspaper down and looked at Mrs.
Renton.
“Yes?” he said.
“Well,” answered Mrs. Renton, “I am the caller
referred to in that paragraph. It was I who called at
Miss Brock's lodgings. I was there—oh, perhaps
half an hour. And I wanted to ask you—do you think
the police will bother me? Do you think they'll find
out? Do you think I shall have to give evidence, and
all that sort of thing? And do you think it would
perhaps be best, wisest, if I went straight to the police
and told them all I know?”
“That,” replied Smith, quietly kicking Styler under
the table, “that wholly depends on what you do
know.’


MRS. RENTON'S STORY 231
“I know next to nothing!” said Mrs. Renton. “And
I'm utterly confused about what I do know. Every-
thing was so—so very strange.”
“What was it that was strange?” asked Smith.
‘Oh, everything! Miss Brock—her conduct—her
—ol, it was all strange!” replied Mrs. Renton. “I
didn' and don't understand it at all. Perhaps I’d
better explain. You see, I arranged to come to town
for a f w days. Whenever I come to town I always
stay at Claridge's, and the day before I come I send
a line to the papers—the Times, Morning Post, Tele-
graph, yºu know—saying that I am staying at
Claridge's or so long. That lets my friends know I'm
in town, and saves me a lot of trouble. Of course, I
sent the usual notice to the papers when I came up the
other day. A nd I suppose that's how Miss Brock got
to know that 1 was at Claridge's, you know. Anyhow,
during the first afternoon I was there I got a note from
her, asking me to go and see her that evening.”
“You haven’t got that note, of course, Mrs. Ren-
ton?” inquired Staith.
Mrs. Renton immediately unclasped her bag.
“Oh, but of course I have!” she answered. “Here
it is.” -
She threw a mucl-crumpled sheet of cheap note-
paper on the table, and Smith picked it up and drew
the attention of the other three men to it. It was dated
from Laburnum Terrace and bore traces of having
been hurriedly written.
“DEAR MRs. RENTON,+I learn from the paper that
you are staying at Claridge's Hotel. I should be so


232 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
grateful to you if you would come and see me at he
above address this evening about half-past eight
o'clock. I am sorry to trouble you, but I am sure "ou
will come when I tell you that I am in very great
trouble.
“Yours sincerely,
“SoPHIA BRock.”
“That's Miss Brock's writing, I suppose, "ress?”
asked Smith. “You know it?”
“Oh, that's her writing all right,” asserteſ' Darrell.
“Bit scrawly, but it's hers.”
Smith handed the note back. t
“So you went there, Mrs. Renton?” he remarked.
“As I had no engagements for that evening, I did
go,” replied Mrs. Renton. “I certainly thought it a
strange request, and I couldn't think why it was par-
ticularly made to me, nor why Miss Irock couldn't
come to my hotel. But I'm not winout a certain
amount of curiosity, and as I thought that Miss Brock
had run away from your house, Mr. Tress, because
of that Kesteven affair, I—well, I went. I dined early
on purpose, and I drove to this place immediately
after dinner. And when I got there and saw Miss
Brock, I was more mystified than ever!”
“Now, why, exactly?” asked Smith, who was fol-
lowing every word with great attention. “What par-
ticularly excited your astonishment?”
“Because of Miss Brock's manner, and what she
said—or didn't say—and her behaviour—and every-
thing,” replied Mrs. Renton. “She seemed as if she


MRS. RENTON'S STORY 233
didn't quite know what she was doing. She didn't, or
couldn’t, tell me what the trouble was to which she
referred in this letter; she talked disjointedly; she
was perpetually going to the window and looking out
on the street 99
“As if she expected somebody, eh?” interrupted
Smith.
“I don't know whether she expected anybody or
not,” said Mrs. Renton. “I only know what she did,
and that she was restless and uneasy. And in the
middle of it all a telegram came to her, and 99
“Ah!” exclaimed Smith. He glanced knowingly at
Hextall. “Yes,” he went on, turning again to Mrs.
Renton. “A telegram, eh? And what then? She
read it, of course, in your presence.”
“She read it in my presence and she burned it in
my presence,” answered Mrs. Renton. “There was a
bed-room candle standing on a sideboard in her sit-
ting-room, and she lighted it and burned the telegram
before me as soon as she'd read it. And then she said
—I give you her words as near as I can remember
them—‘Oh, Mrs. Renton, I can't talk or tell you any-
thing to-night—will you please go away, and let me
come and see you in a day or two?” And I saw that
she was so upset about something that I went—there
and then.”
“And—that's all?” asked Smith, with a keen glance
at the narrator.
“All!” replied Mrs. Renton, with decisive prompti-
tude. “I left without hearing why she wanted me, or
what was the matter, or—or anything. And I neither
i tº


236 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
turn to what we were discussing. I've made up my
mind as to a certain course of action, and I want to
enter on it this minute. I’ve told you that, in my
opinion, your sister is in danger. Now, will you
authorize me to lay out three thousand pounds if
necessary—at once?”
“Thirty thousand, if you like,” answered Darrell
promptly. “Write you a cheque for it just now, if
you like.”
“You can post me a cheque for three thousand to
my chambers to-night,” said Smith. “During the next
twenty-four hours I shall be away—so will Styler.
We'll see you to-morrow night. In the meantime,
don't leave Miss Tress. Now, Styler, come!”
Outside the flat Smith took his clerk by the arm.
“Styler,” he said, “you’ll go down to Lynne at once
and you’ll stop the night at the Lynne Arms. Find out
by hook or by crook if Mrs. Renton had guests on
the night of the Kesteven murder, and who they
were. Meet me at my chambers at seven to-morrow
evening. As for me, I am going off by the next train
to Weymouth—to find Polbeck.”


|CHAPTER XXV
THE CONVENIENT CABLE
BEFORE the close of that evening Smith was once more
in Weymouth, safely bestowed again in the same hotel
in which he and Styler had interviewed Captain Pol-
beck only two days previously. By nine o'clock next
morning he had breakfasted; before ten he was down
amongst the quays and the shipping, prospecting for
Polbeck and his schooner. And by a quarter past ten
he had found the little seaman, and was safely stowed
away with him in a cabin in which there was just
room to turn round.
Polbeck was shrewdly inquisitive. He knew as
soon as he set eyes on Smith's round face that this
seemingly innocent, gold-spectacled gentleman from
London was wanting him, and was after further in-
formation. Visions of more profitable transactions
arose before his sharp eyes. And Smith left him in
little doubt; he went straight to his subject as soon as
Polbeck had conducted him into the cabin and closed
the door on them.
“I came down from London late last night on pur-
pose of seeing you again, captain,” said Smith. “I
should have gone out to Portland to find you as soon
as I arrived, if it hadn't been so late. Besides, I re-
membered that you don't sail until the twenty-first,
so I felt sure of finding you here this morning. Now I


238 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
want some more information from you, and you shall
be well paid for anything you can tell me.”
“Glad to tell you anything I can, sir,” answered
Polbeck. “But,” he added, with a half-dismal shake
of the head, “I reckon there ain't much, if anything,
that I didn't tell you before.”
“Perhaps other matters have suggested themselves
to me,” said Smith. “I dare say you can be useful.
Now, you don't know the name of the Englishman
whose escape from the French convict establishment
in Guiana you were to assist in?”
“I don't,” replied Polbeck. “Never heard it!”
“You never heard him referred to by, say, a nick-
name?”
“No! He was never referred to except as the
Englishman.”
“And you don't know the name of the man with
whom you had those negotiations?”
“I don’t. But,” exclaimed Polbeck, with a sudden
flash of recollection, “I know him by a nickname,
sure enough!”
“Ah, that's good,” responded Smith, with a sigh
of relief. “What nickname, now?”
“Cuba Sam,” answered Polbeck promptly. “Him
being a chap as was always talking about his doings in
Cuba—which is a place that, in my opinion, he'd
made a trifle too hot to hold him.”
“Did everybody know him by that name?” asked
Smith.
“Never heard him mentioned or by no other,” re-
plied Polbeck. “Oh, yes, he's well enough known in


THE CONVENIENT CABLE 239
Georgetown by that name—leastways, he's well
known at that bar where I used to meet him.”
“Very good. Now what's the name of that bar?”
asked Smith. “Bar, tavern, public-house, or whatever
it is?”
“Aykin's Bar—that's how it's called. On Gun-
fire Wharf–that’s where it is. A favourite house of
call for English and Yankee skippers. Bar they call
it, but it's a sort of hotel, where you can put up if you
want to,” said Polbeck. “Many’s the time I’ve
stopped there myself.”
“Good again, captain—we're getting on very well,”
remarked Smith. “You’re able to tell me something
valuable, after all. Now then, here's the most serious
question of the lot: Do you know any man—any busi-
ness man—in Georgetown whom you can thoroughly
rely upon?”
“I do, sir,” answered Polbeck with assurance.
“The agent I deal with there is as straight a man as
you'd meet in a twelvemonth. Daniel Brine, general
agent. Known him nigh on to twenty year.”
“Is he the sort of man who would do some confiden-
tial business for you if you cabled to him?” asked
Smith.
“He would, sir,” replied Polbeck. “No man bet-
ter. I’ve had occasion to cable Daniel Brine before
to-day—on small matters, of course. But if you've
never cabled to them parts before, sir, I’ll warn you
that it's an expensive business—five-and six a word,
unless you send it at the deferred rates, and even then
it's half that.”


240 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“I'm afraid we can't help the cost,” observed
Smith. “It's got to be incurred. Now if you've got
anything to do about your ship, captain, leave me
to draft out this cable, and when I’ve settled it to my
satisfaction, we'll go to the post-office together. Can
you give me writing materials?”
Polbeck produced an old-fashioned desk and a
quantity of foolscap, and saying that he would see to
his lading, went on deck and left Smith to his labours.
They were not so easy as he had fancied they might
be; it was difficult to convey to a man three thousand
four hundred miles away the exact meaning of what
he wanted. And the situation was in itself delicate.
Smith knew well enough that he must do nothing to as-
sist, or even seem to desire to assist in the escape of a
man who had been convicted and sentenced to a term
of penal servitude by a friendly government; if it were
found out that such a matter was being compassed
there would be sad complications with our own
Foreign Office and the French authorities. What he
wanted was not to assist the mysterious Englishman
now held at Cayenne to escape, but to ascertain
definitely who he was. This Cuba Sam might know
that much: he might not. But under the present grave
circumstances, it was certainly worth while spending
some of Darrell Tress's money in order to find out
what Cuba Sam did know.
Eventually Smith produced the following message,
which he read over half a dozen times before sum-
moning Polbeck to hear it:


THE CONVENIENT CABLE 24l
“Polbeck, Weymouth, to Brine, Georgetown, Dem-
erara. Please find Cuba Sam at Aykin's Bar. Tell
him Polbeck says matter of Englishman now in other
hands fully disposed to take it up but requiring proof
Cuba Sam's bona fides before proceeding. He must
at once cable Englishman's name and date of his leav-
ing France to Smith, 68c, Pump Court, London. On
his doing this pay him one hundred pounds now
cabled by me to your order at British Guiana Bank,
Georgetown, and tell him to be ready for further in-
structions.”
“However cautious a gentleman Cuba Sam may be,
that ought to fetch him if he's still in the land of the
living,” mused Smith, as he went towards the com-
panion to call Polbeck. “There's nothing in that to
make him suspicious, and there's everything to raise
his hopes. Come down, captain, and look at this,” he
went on, as he caught sight of Polbeck's sturdy figure
on deck. “How will that do?” he asked, when he had
laid the sheet of foolscap before the seaman. “...ou
see what I'm after—I want to know what name that
Englishman goes by. Will that fetch Cuba Sam?
Is he the sort of chap who'll jump at a hundred
pounds in cash?”
Polbeck slowly read over the cablegram, and re-
read it, and fell to scratching his head.
“Well,” he said, “he weren't exactly what you'd
call a hard-up chap, Cuba Sam. He’d always money
for what he wanted. All the same, a hundred pound
for the mere trouble of telling a man's name is good
pay. But,” he continued with a sly laugh, “I know


242 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
what'll fetch Cuba Sam quick enough. All you want
to do, mister, to improve that there message, is to add
two words to it.”
“What words?” asked Smith.
“‘And remittances,’” replied Polbeck with a
shrewd wink. “‘And remittances.” Make them last
words read, ‘Be ready for further instructions and re-
mittances.’ See? Then he'll think the thing's going
through quicker nor what he'd thought it was. Add
'em, guv'nor—add them two words!”
“Good notion!” said Smith, and scribbled the
words in. “And now, captain, you can come with me
to the bank and the post-office, and we'll get this little
job through. Now let's see—it's now half-past ten
English time. What time will it be in those far-away
regions?”
“Georgetown, sir, is situate, roughly speaking, fifty-
eight degrees west of Greenwich,” answered Polbeck,
with an air of wisdom. “Accordingly, it will at this
moment be about twenty minutes to seven in the morn-
ing there.”
“Then we may reckon that your agent, Daniel
Brine, will get this cable by the time he starts busi-
ness,” said Smith. “Then I suppose he'll have to look
for Cuba Sam.”
“Cuba Sam's practice was to drop in at Aykin's
Bar about eleven o’clock of a forenoon,” remarked
Polbeck, “and as it was Brine's to drop in a bit later,
I reckon they'll meet there just when it's about three
o'clock this afternoon with us.”
f


244 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
/
countered the earlier editions of the London evening
papers, and a staring headline showed him that the
police were being active—or, at any rate, were having
activity thrust upon them.
The headline spoke of important developments.
But Smith laughed gently and satirically when he read
the first paragraph. Mrs. Renton had evidently been
to headquarters and had told the authorities precisely
what she had told the gathering in Darrell Tress's
study. And it was abundantly evident from the in-
spired communication to the press that the authorities
regarded this as a thoroughly satisfactory explanation
of Mrs. Renton's visit to Miss Brock's lodgings.
“It is quite evident,” the report went on, “that the
unfortunate young woman was in a highly nervous
and anxious state when Mrs. Renton visited her, and
the testimony of the landlady, Mrs. Hodgson, seems
to indicate that she was equally nervous and uneasy
during the next day. Mrs. Hodgson states that Miss
Brock scarcely touched the meals served to her, was
seen and heard to pace her room a great deal, and was
obviously anxious and abstracted. She appeared to
be extremely nervous when the telegram already re-
ferred to was handed to her, and the servant who saw
her enter the taxi-cab in company with the unknown
man says that she was talking to her companion in a
very excited manner. Fortunately, the driver of the
taxi-cab has come forward. At a late hour last night
he presented himself at New Scotland Yard and told
his story to the authorities. He remembered being
hailed by the two people in question at the corner of


CHAPTER XXVI
STYLER LEARNS THINGS
While Smith journeyed down to Weymouth, Styler,
less pressed for time, went leisurely home to his
lodgings, made ready his faithful motor-cycle, and in
due course set out on a pleasant evening ride across
Surrey. There was no particular reason why he
should arrive at Lynne before dark, and he accord-
ingly made his way southward at a moderate speed.
This plentitude of time also induced Styler, when he
was half-way to his destination, to pull up at an in-
viting way-side hostelry in the neighbourhood of
Dorking, and to possess himself of a foaming pot of
bitter ale; a love of the truly rural and of fresh air
made him carry that pot outside the tavern to a bench
which stood beneath its diamond-paned windows and
swinging signpost. And sitting there in the fading
twilight, conversing amicably with a carter whose
horses were drinking at the trough, Styler became
aware of a smart automobile which came from the
direction of London and went southward. It flashed
past the wayside inn at top speed, and was gone in a
second. But Styler had remarkably sharp eyes, and
in one of the two occupants of that well-appointed car
he recognized Mrs. Renton. He was glad to see, how-
ever, that Mrs. Renton did not recognize in him the
fourth member of the group which she had en-
|


STYLER LEARNS THINGS 247
countered at Darrell Tress's flat earlier that very
afternoon. Mrs. Renton did not, in fact, even glance
at the wayside inn, nor at the ale consumer who
lounged on its bench; she was busily engaged as she
whirled past in talking to a companion. And Styler
observed that the companion was a tall, elderly gentle-
men of an appearance which suggested a present or
past connexion with the army.
Styler made no haste over his pot of ale, but he ac-
celerated his speed when he once more mounted his
motor-cycle. It was just approaching dusk when he
rode into the stable-yard of the Lynne Arms, de-
posited his machine in the coach-house, and went into
the bar to arrange about his room for the night. He
lingered there for a few minutes, chatting with the
landlord; then, hinting that he had a little business in
the village, he went out into the gloom. The landlord
believed that Styler was bound for the police-station;
but Styler, though he certainly proceeded in that
direction, soon turned on his tracks and sought an-
other. If any one had been able to dog his footsteps
they would have found that they led, by various twist-
ings and turnings, to the neighbourhood of Mrs. Ren-
ton's residence, The Warren.
Like a good many other folk who have set out on
this particular sort of quest, Styler had no very clear
notion of what he was going to do. But he was a pro-
found believer in chance; something, he felt sure,
would turn up which would be of use and advantage
to him. To begin with, he introduced himself, worm-
fashion, into Mrs. Renton's quiet grounds, and from


248 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
the convenient ambuscade of a shrubbery, took a look
at the house. There were lighted windows above and
below, but as all the blinds were closely drawn, Styler
quickly perceived that he was not going to have much
opportunity of getting a peep into the interior. This
was disappointing, because he wished to see Mrs. Ren-
ton's companion at close quarters. And then, while
he was casting about in his mind as to what he should
do next, the hall-door opened, and in the flood of light
which streamed out from the hall he saw Mrs. Renton
and the man who had ridden with her in the motor-car
emerge and walk quickly away down a side path. In
another minute Styler heard the click of a garden
gate; then footsteps on the hard road without. And
in the second minute he had slipped off his shoes, had
slipped out of the shrubbery, and was following those
footsteps at a safe distance.
The two people in front went up hill; up the lane
towards the woods which shut in the park and grounds
of Lynne Court. Styler fancied that Mrs. Renton and
her companion might be going there; wherever they
were going, he, too, was bound. But before he had
time to speculate further on this matter his quarry
turned aside, took a woodland path, and made straight
for the retired bungalow in which dwelt Mr. Samuel
Pegge.
Styler's heart began to thump in his bosom. This,
he informed himself gaily, this was a bit of all right;
this was a real, proper adventure! Visiting Samuel
Pegge, alias Septimus Philcox, latish in the evening,
in secret fashion—good! Now if only he could trans-


250 YNNE COURT SPINNEY
papers and a yellow-backed novel, which Mr. Pegge
had evidently thrown down, face foremost, when the
knock came at his door.
The three occupants of the room were already in
conversation when Styler contrived to get a view of
them. Mrs. Renton occupied the easy-chair which
Mr. Pegge had just vacated; her companion sat in an-
other on the other side of the table. Mr. Pegge stood,
a briar pipe in his hand, on the hearth-rug between
them. He was listening with close attention to what-
ever it was that the other man was saying, and Styler
cursed the builder of that bungalow for building it so
well. It was evidently no jerry-built erection, for the
window fitted properly and tightly; not a sound came
to him through any crack or crevice. And though he
watched and waited a good half-hour he heard noth-
ing, saw nothing, out of the common. The three
people appeared to be discussing something—some-
thing of a serious nature, to judge by the expression
of their respective faces. Now Mrs. Renton talked,
now her companion talked, now Mr. Pegge talked.
They appeared to be on very good terms; the elderly
gentleman accepted Mr. Pegge's hospitality, and took
a whiskey-and-soda at his hands and lighted a cigar
from a box which Mr. Pegge reached down from a
shelf over the fireplace. In fact, they seemed to be
very friendly together, and again Styler anathema-
tized the builder of the bungalow.
“I hope his rent doesn't pay him for what he laid
out on the infernal place!” soliloquized Styler. “If
he'd only put some green wood into this confounded
!


STYLER LEARNS THINGS 251
window when he was running the show up there'd have
been cracks in it by now that you could have shoved
your finger through, and then I should have heard
what these three are talking about. Can't hear as
much as a fly's buzz, as it is! Anyway, they’re dis-
cussing something serious—tell that by their faces.”
At the end of half an hour Mr. Pegge's visitors rose
and showed unmistakeable signs of departing, and
Styler accordingly slipped off to the gate, secured his
shoes, and hid himself in the bushes at the side of the
lane. Presently Mrs. Renton and her companion
came out of the bungalow and went homewards, and
Styler kept his ears open, hoping that they might drop
an illuminating remark or two as they passed him.
But they went down the lane in silence; the fragrant
odour of the cigar which the man was smoking faded
away; the sound of the footsteps died, and Styler was
alone with the spring night.
After a period of indecision he went slowly towards
The Warren. He was far from satisfied, in spite of
the fact that he had discovered a very interesting ad-
dition to his store of knowledge. It was certainly
something—perhaps a good deal—to have found out
that Mrs. Renton and this companion of hers were on
friendly and intimate terms with the ex-convict, some
time chairman and director of the once famous Im-
perial Splendour Development and Enterprise Soci-
ety. Suddenly Styler started—almost jumped in his
shoes, which he had very thankfully reassumed.
“Gad!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Gad!—
of course, they don't know who the old chap is! They


252 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
don't know that Samuel Pegge is Septimus Philcox!
Of course not!—Mrs. Renton only looks on the old
faker as a neighbour. And yet I’ll swear that wasn't
a mere friendly call to-night. Not it!—it was a real,
serious, business interview! What about? Hang it!
—confound it!—what was it about?”
Juts then Styler found himself abreast of one of the
entrance gates of The Warren. A sudden brilliant
notion struck him; he pushed open the gate, walked
into the grounds, marched resolutely to the front door
and rang the bell. He heard the sound of its sharp
peal ring through the quiet house; in another moment
he found himself confronted by a trim parlourmaid
who look at him with obvious astonishment.
“Mrs. Renton within?” demanded Styler. “Just
so—thank you. Would you have the kindness to ask
her if she will see Mr. Styler—Mr. Smith's clerk?
Tell her I've come down from London on purpose to
see her.”
The maid memorized this message with an effort,
and invited Styler to step within, and disappeared into
a room on the right-hand side of the hall, in the win-
dow of which Styler had seen lights as he reached the
house. Presently she was back with an invitation to
the caller to advance, and Styler, who had already
prompted himself for the part he was going to play,
stepped forward to meet Mrs. Renton, who, looking
very much surprised, had come to the door of the
room.
“Good evening, ma'am,” said Styler, chock-full of
self-assurance and confidence. “I’m sorry to trouble


STYLER LEARNS THINGS 253
you at this late hour, but a question occurred to us
after you'd left—”
Mrs. Renton beckoned him to walk in, and closed
the door when she had followed him. She indicated
the elderly gentleman, who had now finished Mr.
Pegge's cigar, and was just then selecting a cheroot
from an old-fashioned case. He interrupted him-
self in this task to clap a monocle in his right eye and
to stare at Styler with interest.
“My brother, Major Esmondhaugh, of whom you
heard me speak this afternoon,” said Mrs. Renton.
“Major Esmondhaugh is quite conversant with what
happened at Mr. Tress's to-day, Mr. Styler, so you
can speak before him. What is it—and how did you
know that I was here?”
“Made inquiry at your hotel, ma'am, and heard
that you had left for the country,” said the unblush-
ing Styler. “So as there was a question or two of
importance, I jumped up on my motor-cycle and ran
down. About that call of yours on Miss Brock, now,
Mrs. Renton?” he went on, taking the chair which
Mrs. Renton pointed to. “Could you refresh your
memory, ma'am, sufficiently to remember whether any-
thing—any little thing—happened which suggested to
you, or would suggest itself to you, upon reflection,
that Miss Brock lured you there—lured you, mind!—
to meet somebody!”
Mrs. Renton, who had been gazing at her visitor
with great curiosity, started.
“I hadn't thought of that.” she said reflectively.
“But I told you that she kept continually going to the


STYLER LEARNS THINGS 255
—shown by the unfortunate lady's frequent visits to
the window—that she was expecting somebody.”
Then Styler bowed himself out, explaining, in an-
swer to Mrs. Renton's inquiries, that he was putting
up at the Lynne Arms for the night. And to that hos-
telry he straightway betook himself as soon as he was
clear of The Warren, and, once installed within it, he
sat up gossiping with the landlord until midnight, and
when he went to bed it was with the comfortable con-
sciousness of having learnt several important things
wherewith to regale Smith's ears on his return from
his own mission.


CHAPTER XXVII
THE ESMONDHAUGH PEDIGREE
STYLER, who was given to enjoying himself whenever
professional duties carried him into the country, lay
between the lavender-scented sheets of his bed at the
Lynne Arms until a comparatively late hour next
morning, and subsequently trifled over what he called
a truly rural breakfast of ham and eggs until nearly
eleven o'clock. He had done all that he wanted to do,
and he had several hours of leisure available before
keeping his appointment with his master at the cham-
bers in Pump Court. And being fond of the country,
he determined to make a detour in returning to town.
He would cut along through Dorking, and on to Rei-
gate, and perhaps as far as Sevenoaks, resting now
and then at one of those wayside inns which some un-
developed artistic sense in his composition made
specially appealing to him. It was a fine day, and
there were good roads, and you can cover a heap of
country in seven hours on a good motor-bicycle.
Therefore before noon struck from the church clock
Styler paid his bill, said farewell to the landlord, to
whom he jocosely remarked that he never need be sur-
prised at seeing him, and departed eastward. But as
he sped down the village street it suddenly occurred to
him that it would seem unmannerly and ill-bred if he
did not call at the police-station and pass the time of


258 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Ah, I dare say I've set eyes on him,” remarked
Styler carelessly. “Big chap, grey moustache. Oh-
so it belongs to him, does it? Well, I dare say you
can do with a fiver as well as anybody else, and it's
an ill wind that blows nobody any good.”
“Oh, there’ll be two or three of us to share at that,”
said the inspector. “Yes—it's Major Esmondhaugh's
is that charm. He came in here about an hour ago.
“Oh!” he says, “I say—when I was down here at my sis-
ter's the other day, I lost a trinket off my watch-chain
—a little bit of gold, carved and ornamented—and I
want to offer a reward to anybody who finds or has
found it—I’ll offer five pounds,’ he says. “It was a
keepsake. I don't know where I lost it,” he says. “It
may have been in the street here, or in the lane going up
to The Warren, or it may have been in some of these
woodland paths in the park at Lynne Court—I was
walking about there for an hour or two in the evening.
Can you put a paper or two up about the village, offer-
ing five pounds?” he says. “I’m anxious to get it back
—it was a keepsake,” he says again. So I made no
more to-do about it, but got the thing out and handed
it to him. And mighty surprised he was, I can tell
you. “Now where did you find it?’ says he. “In one
of the paths at Lynne Court, when we were searching,
after the murder,’ says I. “Ah, to be sure!’ he says.
“I was round about there that very evening,” he says.
And then he said we must have this fiver, and forked
it out, handsome enough, and there it is. So you see
there's no mystery about that charm, after all,” con-
cluded the inspector. “Plain enough, that. Well,
|


THE ESMONDHAUGH PEDIGREE 259
and how are you getting on? Been down here on the
look-out, I reckon?”
“I left something behind me last time I was here,”
answered Styler. “Oh, I’ve no particular news.
Those London folks of yours made any inquiry here
about this Miss Brock affair yet?”
“Not yet,” answered the inspector. “I’m expecting
they will, though. Now—what do you think? Was
it another job by the same hand, that?”
“If I was to tell you what I think,” replied Styler,
“I would be here all day. However, I don’t mind say-
ing that I think we shall all have a big surprise in the
end. And I’m glad to find you well, and I’ll bid you
good morning—I’ve got an appointment with my
guv'nor.”
But before that appointment was kept Styler had
done a lot of thinking, and he was quite ready for dis-
cussion when he had made his report of all these
things to Smith in the quiet chambers in Pump Court.
Smith, who had listened with silent attention, was
eager on his part, to sum things up.
“Now, Styler,” he said, drawing a sheet of paper
towards him and beginning to scribble, “let’s sum-
marize what we know from these inquiries or dis-
coveries of yours; I'll jot them down—there's nothing
like seeing things in black and white, even if they go
into the fire or the basket immediately afterwards.
“1st. We now know that Major Esmondhaugh was
down there at Lynne on the night of Kesteven's mur-
der.


THE ESMONDHAUGH PEDIGREE 263
—an old gentleman, Styler, Widower. Wife was
Joan Cicely, daughter of Sir David Chillinglin, of
Chillinglin Tower, Northumberland. Has issue God-
frey Hamilton, a Major in the Army, born 1875–
that's our man; also Rosalind, born 1884, married
1906, Arthur Charles Renton, Esquire, of 320, Upper
Brook Street, W.; also Maud, born 1885, married
1913, John Patrick Angus, sixth Earl of Oronsay.
Styler!”
“Sir!” exclaimed Styler, startled by his master's
sharp exclamation.
“Did you hear that, Styler? Mrs. Renton's—and
Major Esmondhaugh's—sister is a countess!”
‘I heard, sir. I also heard another thing. Her
name's Maud.”
Smith looked up from the pages of the Baronetage.
“Well?” he said.
“The name of the lady referred to in that marriage
certificate was Maud,” answered Styler.
“Ah!” said Smith. “So it was. Maud Eleanor
Rivers, of Broom Lodge, Northumberland, spinster.
Um!—well, Maud is not an uncommon Christian
name for ladies. Get that Peerage, Styler—it's only
a year or two old, I think.”
Styler fetched a heavy volume and Smith turned
its pages over until he came to the entry he wanted.
“Here we are,” he said. “John Patrick Angus
Chisholm-Huntley, sixth Earl of Oronsay, etcetera,
etcetera—lof of details that don’t concern us. Born
1881—married—yes, that's it—Maud, second daugh-
ter of Sir Godfrey Esmondhaugh, Baronet. Lives


266 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
thing will have to be done! If not—well, I'm afraid
—in fact, I'm certain—something will happen.”
Smith had already seen that Hextall was nervous,
excited, and disturbed; he himself accordingly be-
came purposely calm, matter-of-fact, and business-
like. He took off hat and coat, picked out the easiest
chair, and coolly lighted a cigarette.
“Now, my dear fellow,” he said, “you'd better tell
me what has happened. But I think I can tell you.
You've had some of those chaps from the police head-
quarters to see you. They've been bothering you with
questions about Miss Paquita. Come!”
Hextall made a gesture of impatient vexation.
“I’d one of 'em last night,” he exclaimed, “and an-
other this morning, and two more an hour ago, all
asking what I consider to be the most ridculous quest-
tions! Did I think this possible?—did I consider that
possible?—had I noticed that?—had I seen this? I
told them all that it seemed to me that they were
trying to get me to suggest how Miss Tress could or
did or might have shot Kesteven!”
“Why, of course, my dear Hextall, and what else
do you suppose the poor men came for?” answered
Smith with a laugh. “They’ve their work to do, their
solemn duties to perform, and naturally they jump at
any chance there is of getting somebody to help in the
work and lighten the duties. They’d be infinitely
obliged to you if you would simplify matters, and say
at once that you believe it’s quite possible that Miss
Paquita did shoot Kesteven. They're not very par-
|


THE GREEKS INTERVENE 267
ticular, these gentlemen, about motive—unless it is
obvious and of assistance to them; what they like is
plain, straight proof. But now, did you manage to
get anything out of them? Did they tell you if they
are going to act on Walters’ information? Are they
going to arrest Miss Tress?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” replied Hextall with a groan.
“Those two who were here an hour ago said some-
thing very guarded about never taking extreme steps
until a very strong case is made out, but 92
“Exactly, and they've been bothering you in the
hopes of strengthening their case,” said Smith. “I
hope you've adopted a consistent line all through with
them? What line have you taken, now?”
“I’ve told them plainly that Miss Tress is a som-
nambulistic subject, and that it is absolutely impos-
sible that she could have shot Kesteven while in a state
of somnambulism,” replied Hextall. “One of them
actually wanted to know if I thought it possible for
her to have gone out and shot Kesteven while in her
normal condition, and to have lapsed into a somnam-
bulistic state after the deed was done and before re-
turning to the house! Ass!”
“Say rather a scientific speculator whose ideas have
not yet reached maturity,” remarked Smith. “Well,
I told you and Tress that ever since Walters gave that
information to the police there's always been the
danger of Miss Paquita’s arrest—it just depends on
what amount of importance the head authorities at-
tach to the footman's statement, and what corrobora-


268 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
tive evidence they can scrape together. Of course,
there's the element of suspicion—there's no use in
denying it. And the great thing to do, Hextall, in
order to relieve you and everybody else of all
anxiety, is to find the man or woman who murdered
both Kesteven and Miss Brock—for as sure as fate
those murders were the work of one hand!”
“Man or woman?” repeated Hextall. “Do you
really think it might have been a woman's work?”
“Why not? Any woman can use a revolver,” re-
plied Smith. “There are circumstances—I needn’t
go into them yet—which make me think that the mur-
derer possibly was a woman. You must remember
that woman is more elusive than man—in more senses
and way than one—and that she has more cunning,
greater skill in deception, and better opportunties of
concealment. Yes, it may have been a woman's hand,
Hextall, that took the life of both those two.”
Hextall, who had been restlessly pacing up and
down the room, came to a halt on the hearthrug, and
gave Smith a searching glance.
“Honour bright, Smith!” he exclaimed. “Do you
really think you’re going to find out who did it—in
either case? I want to know.”
“Honour bright, I believe I shall find out who did it
in both cases,” replied Smith. “And as I’ve already
said, I believe we’ve only one culprit to deal with.
There are many strands in this rope, many twists and
turns in this web, Hextall, but we’re gradually finding
the ends of some and untying the knots in others. Of


270 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
might possibly help in establishing the guilt of the
real criminal.”
“I’d rather it was established in some other fash-
ion,” said Hextall grimly; “I want to keep Miss Tress
out of it. It's an extraordinary thing to me that the
police can't do something! Instead of wasting all that
time asking me questions, why don't they go after that
man who was seen with Miss Brock? Why don't
they 29
“My dear fellow!” interrupted Smith, with a laugh.
“You don't understand our police methods. I knew
what would happen as soon as ever I heard that Wal-
ters had blabbed. Your official policeman is always
pleased with the obvious. Now, you see, it is un-
doubtedly obvious that Miss Paquita Tress was some-
where in Kesteven's vicinity about the time of the
murder in company with a revolver—therefore—”
“Therefore they immediately forgot the fact that
Miss Brock was last seen alive in the company of a
strange man whom they don't seem to have done any-
thing to trace!” exclaimed Hextall bitterly.
“Oh, well, you don't know what they've done, or
are doing!” said Smith. “You don't quite know what
I am doing, or have done.”
“I’d rather know that than know what the others
are after,” answered Hextall. “I suppose you’re
playing some deep game—but I’m awfully anxious,
Smith—awfully!”
“Well,” observed Smith as Styler was ushered into
the room, “here comes something that may possibly
give you some information—it’s a message from three


272 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“It's one of those men from the police again!” he
muttered. “Hang it all, I 99
“My dear fellow, have this man shown in at once,”
said Smith. “Certainly—certainly! He no doubt
thinks he is being extraordinarily polite to you in
taking so much trouble—you don't know how suave
our police can be if they wish. Let him come in
immediately.”
The man who entered—one of the two who had
called at Darrell Tress's flat on the previous afternoon
—was indeed suave and gentle enough. He greeted
Smith and Styler with a polite, good-humoured smile,
and turned apologetically to Hextall.
“You’ll think I’ve never done bothering you, doc-
tor,” he said, as he took a chair. “But the fact is, I
thought I'd better let you know how things are going.
I'm afraid the young lady will have to give some ex-
planation, sir, if she can.”
“In plain language,” said Hextall a little irritably,
“you mean that she's to be arrested? Better say it
straight out.”
The detective looked at Smith and smiled again.
“Well, if you like plain language, sir—yes,” he
said. “Probably to-morrow morning. You see,
there's sufficient evidence to warrant it. I dare say
you'll be surprised, gentlemen, but the fact is—the
valet's split!”
“The valet? Fowler?” exclaimed Hextall.
“Exactly, doctor; Fowler,” quietly answered the
detective. “He’s been round this evening—to say that
he wasn't going to keep things back any longer. He's
.


CHAPTER XXIX
|
THE CAFE NOIR
THE four men who stood about the room in various
attitudes of surprise stared at Mr. Victor Demetriadi
as if he had suddenly fallen through the ceiling as a
direct bolt from the blue. For a moment there was
a dead silence; then Smith moved a step towards the
new-comer, who had continued to smile at the group
as if highly delighted with the effect he had produced.
“You—what?” said Smith. “What?”
Demetriadi waved his hand with an expressive ges-
ture.
“Oh, yes!” he exclaimed. “You are—eh?—sur-
prised? Not at all—when I say it to you, eh?”
“Say it, for God's sake, then!” said Smith. He
turned to Hextall with an inquiring glance. “One of
your two Greek gentlemen, of course?” he muttered.
“Good heavens—what an interposition!”
“Mr. Demetriadi,” replied Hextall. “Sit down,
Mr. Demetriadi. You've something to tell us?”
Demetriadi sat down and pulled out his cigarette-
CaSe.
“You permit, eh?” he said. “Oh, yes—I have some-
thing. I came to you, doctor, straight—yes? These
gentlemen—friends of yours?”
“You’ve met me before,” interposed Smith sud-
denly. “You’ve forgotten. I met you and Chimbou-


276 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
he goes away, this other man, away out of the café
altogether. And somehow—I do not know how—
Chimbouloglos and me, we get talking to Kesteven,
you understand—somehow or other we get friendly,
eh? And in the end he ask us to that little game of
cards—yes?”
Smith glanced at the man from New Scotland Yard.
“Mr. Demetriadi,” he remarked, “is referring to
the incident at Mr. Tress's flat, about which Fowler,
the valet, has been kind enough to split. Mr. Deme-
triadi is one of the two gentlemen who were there.”
“Oh, yes, I was there!” said Demetriadi with a
chuckle. “It was me that was to be shot for cheating
—pho! But we forget all that now—it is nothing!
What we don't forget, Chimbouloglos and me, is Kest-
even. And when we see about his murder in the
paper we think much—great deal. However, we just
then go away from London—go to Brighton for a few
days, you understand—enjoying ourselves. And we
don't have no time to think about murders while we
are at Brighton—better fun there, eh? But the other
day we come back, and the night we get to London
again we go to dine with Chimbouloglos's uncle, Mr.
Antonio Chimbouloglos, at his house in Park Lane,
you see—very rich man, old Antonio—you know
him? Yes—great collector of pictures and so on.
Well, old Antonio he give us very good dinner, and
show us his pictures, but we get—you know—bit sick
of that—and we want to see something more lively.
So we say good night to Mr. Antonio at just before


THE CAFE NOIR 281
and walked away down the side street in which the
new establishment known as the Café Noir had re-
cently opened its doors. Before they reached it,
Demetriadi, who was obviously deriving great enjoy-
ment from his adventure, pulled Styler by the sleeve.
“Now,” he said in a whisper, “we make our strat-
egy, eh? I go in and join my friend—yes? We are
at a little table not far within—the man, he is at a
table opposite. You come in later—you take a seat
same side as us—you look across and you see sim—
a big fellow, looks as if he might have been a soldier
—moustache turned up, you understand?”
“All right,” answered Styler. “I’ll spot him, mis-
ter. And when he goes out, I shall give you a look,
and if I’m right you’ll give me one, and then I shall
follow him. And mind you, if you do a bit of follow-
ing, be careful. Don't follow him, follow me. I’m
used to their games—been at 'em ever since I was
fifteen.”
The Greek nodded, and presently entered the swing-
ing doors of the restaurant. Styler let a few minutes
elapse before he followed. Then he, too, assumed a
careless air, and lounged into the new establishment,
glanced casually around him, and dropped into a seat
near the table at which Demetriadi and Chimboulog-
los were sitting. For a moment he occupied himself
in ordering something which could be served without
delay. When the waiter had left him he took an ap-
parently careless look at his neighbours. And there,
exactly opposite to him, was the man whom Deme-


282 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
triadi had described leisurely reading an evening
paper as he smoked his cigar and sipped his coffee.
Styler had no knowledge of this man. He knew a
great many shady characters of the West End; this
man was an absolute stranger to him. He saw at once
that he might be said to answer the description given i
to the police by the maid-servant of Laburnum Ter-
race and the driver of the taxi-cab who had taken Miss
Brock and a companion to the corner of Upper Gros-
venor Street. But he also saw that the man was of a
somewhat common type—tall, inclining to elderliness,
of a military appearance, well-dressed a veritable
man-about-town specimen of humanity. Could this
be the man for whom the police were already on the
look-out?—would he dare to show himself so openly
in a restaurant to which, on account of its newness
and originality, a good many people were going just
then? He might, reflected Styler; he might, believing
that there was safety in sheer boldness. It was a good
half-hour after his own entrance that Styler followed
the tall stranger out of the Café Noir and sauntered
behind him into Oxford Street. Within a minute of
leaving the restaurant he passed Hextall, and then the
detective, and then Smith. Styler's face was blank as
a stone wall as he elbowed past them, but he contrived
to give each a nudge as he slowly edged by on the
track of his quarry.
t
(
|
|
|


THE LIGHTED WINDOW 285
to death. And look here—if the worst should happen,
get them to let Nurse Palliser accompany her. She's
still at the flat, isn't she?—and you, too—tell 'em
she's not strong enough to go alone. Understand?”
Hextall nodded gloomily, and Smith gave the driver
the address of Tress's flat and waved him off. As the
cab moved away he turned in pursuit of Styler and
encountered the two Greeks. Demetriadi pointed a
finger.
“Gone round there, eh?” he said with a sly wink.
“That man and your man. Good! We follow them
—yes?”
“Don't!” urged Smith. “If you two want to help
us, don't! If there are too many of us we shall spoil
everything. My clerk's competent to do all the shad-
owing that's needed. If you really want to help, go
back to that café—have another drink, another smoke
and come round to Hextall's again later in the even-
ing.”
Demetriadi looked disappointed for the minute, but
his face suddenly cleared and he drew his companion
back.
“Right-oh!” he said. “We do what you think bet-
ter—all right, we come see you at the doctor's—
eh?—some time. Good luck!”
Smith hurried round the corner into Upper Regent
Street. The darkness had fallen on the spring
night, and even in that brilliantly-lighted thorough-
fare there were patches of shade. Out of one of those
in front he saw Styler emerge and go slowly onward.


288 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“I saw three figures,” he remarked regretfully,
“but I couldn't make out any more. Did you see—
anybody you know?”
Styler made no reply for a moment. He was
watching the motor-car. The liveried chauffeur had
got down to open the door for the men who had
just gone into the house—now he closed it with a
bang, remounted his box, and moved off to the corner
of Wells Street. Styler drew his master out to the
pavement again.
“I saw two that I know, anyhow!” he exclaimed.
“This is getting a bit thick, sir! Yes, two—Esmond-
haugh, for one. And for the other—Pegge! Pegge—
Philcox! What on earth does it mean! Those two—
going in there—together?”
“But there was a third,” said Smith.
“Youngish, swell-looking chap,” answered Styler.
“I don't know him. Oh, yes!—I saw all of 'em. I
just caught sight of them in the nick of time—that
gas-lamp shone full on them. Esmondhaugh and
Pegge—in there with that man! Good Lord!—there's
something behind and beneath all this that we
haven’t reckoned on. Private inquiry agent, eh?”
he continued, as if thinking aloud. “Seen with Miss
Brock—now in consultation with Major Esmond-
haugh—and with old Pegge—um!”
“We don't know that they’ve gone to see this man,”
remarked Smith. “There are other places of busi-
ness in that building, of course.”


294 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“You see,” the detective presently went on, “I,
personally, don't believe in Miss Tress's guilt—not I'
It's all bosh—in spite of what the footman and the
valet have told. But then I'm only an instrument.
Still, as I said before, the warrant's been entrusted to
me, to use at my discretion—the other man who spoke
to me just now didn't know that, nor all that I do—
and I’m not going to execute it until I've told 'em
down yonder about this new development. And
SO 22
Again he looked at Hextall slyly, and Hextall sud-
denly flushed with a new hope.
“You mean—you mean
riedly. “You mean 92
“I mean,” answered the detective, “that if I were
in your shoes, knowing what you know now, I should
just get Miss Tress quietly away somewhere for thirty-
six or even twenty-four hours—by the end of that
time, and maybe long before, I think my warrant
will be so much waste paper. Now look here, doctor
—I’ve treated you like a gentleman—you treat me
the same. Is there anywhere—any friend of yours—
where you could just take Miss Tress so that if we
did call to-night or to-morrow she wouldn't be at
home, and her servants, of course, wouldn't know
where she'd gone?”
“Yes!” replied Hextall. “There is.”
“And you’ll give me your word of honour that if
I should have to ask for her you’ll produce her?”
” he exclaimed hur-


THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR 295
said the detective. “I’m putting myself in your
hands, you know.”
“Yes!” again answered Hextall. He impulsively
held out a hand, and his companion laughed quietly
as he shook it.
“All right, doctor,” he said. “Now then—you take
my advice. Don't say a word of the real truth to
Miss Tress or her brother, but use your own way of
getting her out of their flat-at once. You'll manage
it all right. Make any excuse you can think of—but
get her away. And then—why, we'll just hope that
she can come back in safety. Now I'm off about
my business—you go and do yours.”
He turned away with a reassuring nod, and Hex-
tall, relieved of immediate anxiety and marvelling
greatly at this exhibition of professional diplomacy,
hurried off to the flat in Queen Anne Street. He had
partly made up his mind as to what he would do
while he listened to the detective. He had a sister
living in Hampstead upon whom he could rely; to her
care he would entrust Paquita, for, at any rate, the
thirty-six or twenty-four hours during which there
was hope of some great result. All he had got to do
was to get Paquita away—if it became necessary he
would have to tell Darrell the plain truth; as for
Paquita herself, he felt sure that she would do what-
ever he asked of her.
But the getting away would have to be sure and
secret; he began to contrive and to plan as he walked
towards the flat. Fortunately, the defection of Wal-


THE INNER ROOM 303
clerk had said—certainly these movements were ex-
traordinary. He walked about the corner of the street
a moment or two in deep thought.
“Here!” he suddenly exclaimed. “We know a man
down there who'll tell us what’s going on. Come
along, Styler, we'll follow them.”
He bundled Styler into the cab, told the driver to
pull up in Whitehall, and groaned as he sank into
a corner and slammed the door.
“Too bad if we're disappointed of our game at
the end, Styler,” he said. “But what can these people
know?”
“How does anybody know what we know?”
growled Styler. “We don’t know what the police
know. We don’t know what this Milhirst knows—nor
what Esmondhaugh and Pegge know. They’ve been
playing their game—we've been playing ours. But
there's one thing I’ve been certain of ever since I
went into that Café Noir.”
“What?” asked Smith.
“That that Milhirst chap isn't any guilty party,”
said Styler, with conviction. “I don’t care what con-
nexion he had with Kesteven, nor how much he was
seen with the little governess. No, sir—that chap
isn't a man who's followed—he's following. No
guilty man would have walked out of that café the
way he did nor sauntered to his office as he did. I'm
a bit of a psychologist, though people mayn’t think
it, and I can read some folks pretty quick!”


304 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
While Smith was meditating over this remark the
taxi-cab pulled up in Whitehall and he and Styler get-
ting out walked rapidly in the direction of New Scot-
land Yard. But as they neared the entrance to that
conglomeration of buildings another taxi-cab came
out, and as it passed them, Styler's sharp eyes caught
and searched the faces of the occupants.
“That's that chap Milhirst and a couple of detec-
tives!” he exclaimed. “I know both the detectives by
sight, but I don't know their names. Well, they're
off somewhere, anyway!”
“For anything we know,” remarked Smith, “that
chap may have just been arrested.”
“No, sir!” affirmed Styler, confidently. “Nothing
of the sort—if anything, the three of 'em are on their
way to make an arrest. And—here's the Major and
the others.”
They had turned a corner as Styler spoke, and
there, a short distance away, standing at a door in
company with two or three men of official appearance,
they saw Major Esmondhaugh, Samuel Pegge, and the
younger man who had accompanied the other two to
the office in Margaret Street. The private motor-car
which had been so much in evidence that evening was
drawn up at the kerb; behind it were two or three
taxi-cabs. And as Smith and Styler, passing at the
corner, watched, the man whom Styler had character-
ized as a swell entered the private car alone, and was
driven off in one direction, while Mr. Pegge, simul-
taneously entering a taxi-cab by himself, disappeared
in another. A moment later, Major Esmondhaugh,
ſ


THE INNER ROOM 305
exchanging a nod and a word of farewell with the
group at the door, turned away, and swinging his
stick, strode towards Whitehall and the watchful
couple.
“Speak to him, Styler,” whispered Smith. “He’ll
remember you. Find something out!”
Styler strode out of the patch of shadow in which
he and Smith had lurked and intercepted the ap-
proaching figure.
“Beg your pardon, Major,” he said apologetically.
“You remember me, sir—the other night, at The
Warren, you know, sir?”
Major Esmondhaugh, who was evidently deep in
thought and reflection, paused, stared, fixed his
monocle in his right eye, and bent his tall figure to
comtemplate that of his inquirer. He glanced from
Styler to Smith—and he smiled, oddly and enig-
matically.
“Ah—er—ah!” he said. “Just so. Mr.—er—Sty-
ler, I think? Oh, yes, I remember you perfectly. And
this is, no doubt, Dr. Hextall's friend—Mr. Smith?’”
Smith drew nearer, determined to get some satis-
faction out of an awkward situation.
“You must excuse us for interrupting you, Major
Esmondhaugh,” he said. “The fact is—I dare say
you know that we are engaged on Mr. Tress's behalf
in trying to get at the bottom of these murders.
n 99
Major Esmondhaugh interrupted him with a wave
of the hand.


306 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“Yes, yes, so I think I have understood, Mr. Smith,”
he said. “But really, I—I can't tell you anything,
you know. I—the fact is, everything is in the hands
of these people—police officials, don't you know?—
in here, eh? I think—yes, if you perhaps look in to-
morrow morning's newspapers, you know, you will
find—eh?”
He was showing signs of a desire to go on his way,
as he spoke, and Smith, seeing that he did not wish to
be communicative, drew back with a bow. But Styler
was not to be so easily put off.
“Can't you tell us anything, Major?” he asked
earnestly. “We’ve taken an awful lot of trouble, and
we've followed up a big clue to-night, and we know
that you know more than we do, and—”
“Well, really, Mr. Styler,” answered Major Es-
mondhaugh, not unkindly. “I–really, I wish I
could, you know, but then, you know, I ought not to,
don't you know. Eh? I–professional secrecy, you
know, eh? But I tell you what,” he exclaimed sud-
denlv, with the joy of a not very brilliant man who
receives unusual inspiration, “I tell you what, you
know—I think that if—yes!—if you call on your
friend Dr. Hextall, presently, you’ll hear something
—yes, something pretty, ah, yes, pretty important,
you know! Sorry I mustn't stop, Mr. Smith—got an
awfully pressing engagement, and I’m late for it
already.”
He strode hurriedly away with a nod and a smile,
and Smith and Styler looked at each other. Then
they, too, moved off and went back into Whitehall.


312 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
killed that man Kesteven—and Miss Brock? Impos-
sible!”
The man sat down in the nearest chair and looked
at Smith with a glance full of significance.
“Miss Brock,” he said, “was my sister. That
woman did kill her—and she killed the man you call
Kesteven, too. The proofs are clear enough—be-
sides, you heard what she said.”
“God bless my soul!” muttered Smith. “Do you
hear that, Styler? Aren't you surprised?”
“Never surprised at anything, sir,” replied Styler,
calmly busy with bottles and syphons. “I told you
somebody was working underneath us. All the same,
to be fair, I can't say that I ever suspected that par-
ticular party. But,” he added, as he thrust a tumbler
into Hextall's hand, “after seeing the look in that
party's eyes when she owned up, I should say that
she was capable of killing a few more people. And
I reckon I know what her motive was in those two
cases. Bit of revenge, eh, Mr. Milhirst, wasn’t it?”
he concluded, glancing at the tall man. “Oh, you
needn't start because I know your name—we can do
a bit of looking round, you know, as well as any-
body.”
“I want to know all about it,” said Hextall, reviving
under Styler's care. “I know nothing—I-I thought
you and the other men had come to Mr. Tress's flat on
—on quite another errand. I wish you'd tell us what
the truth is. Have a drink and tell us.”
“It’s a long story and an intricate one, Dr. Hex-
tall,” answered Milhirst. “And at present I can't do


THE UNRAVELLING 313
more than give you a mere outline of it—you'll hear
more of it when that woman's tried. An associate of
yours, I think you said, Mr. Smith, by the by?”
“An employée of mine,” growled Smith. “And a
trusted one!”
“All the same, I don't suppose you know much
about her,” replied Milhirst. “And I can't say that
I know very much myself—but I know quite suffi-
cient of her in connexion with recent events to ensure
that she's safely hanged. Well—if I’m to tell you
briefly what I know, I shall have to begin at what
seems to be the beginning. And I shall have to bring
in some names of people of position—the truth is,
they can't be kept out. And the first name is that of
the Countess of Oronsay.”
Smith nudged Styler, who just then passed him on
his way to hand Milhirst a glass.
“Lady Oronsay,” continued Milhirst, “is the
younger daughter of Sir Godfrey Esmondhaugh and
sister of Major Esmondhaugh and of Mrs. Renton.
She is a lady of—well, original and determined char-
acter—what they call a modern woman. A good
many years ago—comparatively—she came to Lon-
don to live her own life—her tastes were artistic, and
she set up a studio of her own, and, incidently, she got
into what was called a Bohemian set—a pretty nice
lot, I gather! You’ve got to bear in mind that she was
young—also, she was living under an assumed name
—and perhaps she wasn't very particular. Anyway,
she did a very foolish thing—she took a violent fancy
to a man whom she met at that time, and she married


316 LYNNE COURT SPINNEY
“All this was ripe when Kesteven and Tickell came
into the world again from Dartmoor. Almost at once
Kestven made the acquaintance of young Mr. Darrell
Tress, and began to bleed him for all he was worth—
but carefully. He introduced his wife into Mr.
Tress's house as Miss Brock, the governess. He, she,
and Tickell were meanwhile carefully concocting a
gigantic plan for blackmailing Lord Oronsay. And
it was then that Kesteven made a mighty mistake.
They wanted a certain sum of ready money—for rea-
sons of his own, Kesteven didn't want to get it from
Tress. But, as I told you, Kesteven had made the ac-
quaintance of Septimus Philcox, at Dartmoor, and he
know that Philcox could readily command capital.
And meeting Philcox at Lynne, and believing him to
be as big a scoundrel as himself and ready to enter
into his own nefarious schemes, he was fool enough
to tell Philcox of the plot, and to ask him to find the
money in consideration of a big share in the proceeds.
There he made his mistake—Philcox finessed with
him, pumped him, and—told everything to Mrs. Ren-
ton, his neighbour, whom he knew to be Lady Oron-
say's sister.
“But just then events happened pretty quickly, and
I must speak of them in the light of subsequent dis-
coveries. Miss Tress met with an accident and came
down to Lynne Court with two nurses in attendance.
One of those nurses was Ann Palliser, a woman who
had reason to cherish revengeful feelings against
Kesteven, and had, in fact, been looking for him for
years. The very night that she got down to Lynne
-- ~~~


THE UNRAVELLING 321
doubt that the weapon she used was a surgical knife
which, as Dr. Hextall can tell you, we found half an
hour ago in her handbag at Mr. Tress's flat.”
Milhirst rose and began to button his overcoat. He
looked at Smith and Smith looked at him. Then
Smith put his hand in his pocket and drew out the
cablegram from Georgetown.
“There's something that may interest you and your
clients, Mr. Milhirst,” he remarked. “You’re wel-
come to it—I’ve done with this case!”
Milhirst picked up the message and read it atten-
tively. Then he laid it down again.
“Much obliged to you, Mr. Smith,” he said. “But
we’ve already aware of this—we received this news
from the French authorities—officially—two days
ago. Thank you all the same—on behalf of the
parties concerned.”
“Oh, all right, all right!” said Smith, resignedly.
“Glad you’ve been successful in your enterprises, any-
way.” He waited until Milhirst had left, and then he
looked meditatively at Hextall and at Styler. “I’m
wondering,” he muttered, “how long it would have
taken Styler and myself to work round to that grim
conclusion? I—what's the matter, Hextall?”
“Sorry to interrupt you, old chap,” said Hextall,
who was obviously on pins and needles. “But I–I
must go out. I—the fact is, you see, Miss Tress is
waiting for me.”
Then Smith and Styler went away without another
word, and Hextall, parting from them on his doorstep,
raced breathlessly back to the flat, and to Paquita.