Cross Currents E-Book

Ladbroke Black

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

On December 26, 2004, one of the largest earthquakes in human history occurred off the coast of Indonesia, causing a series of powerful tsunamis that hit countries bordering the Indian Ocean. Koh Phi Phi is a beautiful butterfly-shaped island off the coast of Thailand, an island that has long been a favorite destination for tourists. This is a fictional account of this disaster, of what happened, of the tragedies and triumphs of that day.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 1

The Brisbane Courier, Saturday, 23 June 1917

“MABEL, you are an angel.”

Sir Clifford Maxwell, Bart., waved his hand round the gloomy room with its oak panelling and heavy furniture. “You are an angel of light in the darkness of–not the customary abode of angels.”

He handed his visitor to a faded chair that once had been richly upholstered. “I reserve this for visitors because it is comparatively safe,” said the baronet, with it mirthless laugh. “And now let me make some tea.”

Opening, a big cupboard, he displayed a few cracked pieces of old china, two or three tins of potted jam, and a spirit lamp.

“No, let me make the tea,” said Mabel Neville. “Give me the kettle. Where do you keep the bread and butter? Thanks; now sit down and don’t interfere; you must consent to be waited on by a woman sometimes.”

He was a well set up man with square shoulders, a deep chest, and handsome features on which care was carving its tell-tale lines. As he watched the neat little figure flitting about the room his face lost some of its bitterness. The girl sang to herself as she prepared tea and spread the things on the table.

“Now,” she said, seating herself opposite Sir Clifford, “just one little word about business. I have come to ask whether you would be so good as to do some translations for Mr Shepherd. He has just arrived home after one of his journeys abroad, and he wishes these Spanish manuscripts compared with documents that he thinks may be in the British Museum. As he does not know at present, until you see how much research it demands, what would be a reasonable remuneration, he has asked me to hand you five guineas as a preliminary fee.”

Miss Neville opened her satchel and laid live sovereigns and five shillings on the oak table.

Sir Clifford Maxwell tried hard to say with dignified reserve that he would rather not accept any money until he was sure that he could perform the task, but the sight of solid gold and silver, the price of food and tobacco, was too much for the dignity of a man who had just smoked his last pipe, with no prospect of obtaining another.

“It’s very good of you, you are really very kind,” he said.

“Kind! Of course, we are nothing of the sort. Mr Shepherd wants the work. He sends it to, you because you can do it so much better than the ordinary professional translators, so it’s kind of you to oblige him, and that’s quite enough for the present about work. You had a card from Mrs. Wynter-Smith for that dance to-night?”

“Yes, it is there with the rest of the invitations sent to me by people who read their Baronetage,” said Maxwell in a cynical tone as he pointed to a rusty old coal scuttle.

“So you are not coming?”

“I gather from the form of the question that you are going.”

“Of course. Would you mind very much if I gave you a word, of advice? Try to make the best of life, such as it is.”

“I’m afraid I am not blessed with your cheery nature,” said Maxwell, as he glanced at the dancing brown eyes of his visitor.

“Oh, there’s little difficulty in being cheerful if one is determined to live happily. I know what you are thinking Clifford. You marvel how I can be cheerful when I don’t live in a big country house with a season in town and open doors from the very select circle and all that kind of thing. It’s quite true, in my schooldays I was taught to expect it, but I like the freedom of this life. I am never bored. My guardian, the stern and just Shepherd, insists that I shall work for my living, consequently. I toil in a dull library by day and when I have a good time I feel I have earned it. Don’t you think this old house, with all its unhappy memories, has a tendency to make you morbid, Clifford?” she added suddenly, changing the subject from her own affairs to his.

“It has,” he said. “But what’s the alternative? I can’t afford hotels. What is the position of a pampered grandson of a baronet brought up to no profession, led to suppose that he will succeed to wealth, and then suddenly on the death of his grandfather, a man with an empty title. You know the story well, Mabel, so I need not pretend to you, as in what I suppose is foolish pride, I do to others, that I am an eccentric person, and this room is my study. I don’t deny to you it was a bitter awakening when I came home from a tour abroad to discover that my well meaning but unsophisticated relative had been led speculation and had squandered everything. And he had done worse than that, unhappily. Mabel–”

“Oh, don’t dwell on it, Clifford,” said Mabel, suddenly interrupting him. “We cannot recall the past, and if we could, perhaps it would have its disadvantages. You really ought to get out of this place, you know. It is not a residence at all.”

“Yes, I know it has gone mouldy, but it so happens that it was the only thing saved from the wreck, and that because it could not be sold. My father lived here when he was in London. This one room is just habitable, and it provides a roof for me till I can raise sufficient cash to go out into the prairie or the illimitable veldt, or some spot where even a baronet may start fair.”

“All the more reason why you should make the best of London before you leave it. But there, I won’t lecture you any more. I once heard Mr Shepherd, in one of his philosophic moods, remark that folks who have seen better times should never think or talk about themselves, and there is much truth in it. Fancy being a philosopher at my time of life.”

In her light-hearted way she drifted into other topics. She discussed the up-to-date plays, summarised the latest hooks, and gossiped on without giving the man time to revert to the original topic. Clifford Maxwell had little heart for these things nowadays, but still he was not bored.

“Now make up your mind to join us to-night,” she said as she held out her hand.

Maxwell went to the door, and as he was about to open it he turned round. “Why is it that you always seem to bring me some of this work from Shepherd just when I happen to be particularly hard up?”

“Oh, that’s merely a good fortune that watches over you, though you don’t know it. So far as we are concerned it is quite a chance. Mr Shepherd happens to want the work, and the fates decree that he should desire it at the psychological moment. Now don’t get it into your head that there is anything philanthropic about any occasional visits to you, as the humble messenger of a book-worm with a hobby.”

“But I know nothing of Mr Shepherd, I have never even met him. I say, Mabel, isn’t there something mysterious about him?”

“My dear Clifford, why ask these questions? Mr Shepherd is my guardian. True, I had never heard of him until I saw my father’s will, but that cannot be altered now. He makes me live at a Ladies’ Club and come to his library to work daily like a secretary–but that is because he cannot be bothered with ladies living in the house.”

Maxwell looked unconvinced, but he opened, the door and made no further comment. He watched her till she turned the corner and passed out of the square before he closed the outer door.

“I suppose it’s a special gift of the Gods to have a merry disposition,” he said as he walked back to his room. Living alone so much of late, he had got into the habit of talking to himself.

He read and re-read one or two of the documents which Mabel had brought, and pushed the papers from him at the sound of a knock on the door.

“Phew! What a place you do live in,” said a smartly dressed man, looking carefully at the surface of the table before he put down a hat which was just one stage too shiny. “May I smoke? Those are Turkish, these Virginia,” he added, holding out a silver cigarette case, and pointing first to one of the open compartments, then to the other. Maxwell took one of the Turkish.

Regan was a neighbor in a way. He was a director of the Ajax Land Development Company that used the house next door as offices. From passing the time of day as they came in and out to their respective doors, Maxwell and the heads of the company had dropped into the habit of casual conversation. The neighbors had become more and more friendly, and at times, in his intolerable solitude, Maxwell; without wishing to improve the acquaintance, had allowed it to grow.

“Just in a friendly way I called to put you onto a good thing,” said Regan. “You know our chairman, Mr Edmond Brand?”

“Yes, I have met him,” said Maxwell.

“Exclusive sort of person; keeps us at arm’s length socially. I know very few of his friends, and as for poor old Bedford, he never gets within miles of them. But Brand has plenty of money. He thinks our offices are not big enough. Between ourselves he thinks, too, you are lost here. He likes to feel he is aiding deserving. You have only do name your price for this old house, and I can work it. I shouldn’t wonder if some lady had put in a word.”

“The house is not for sale,” said Maxwell. He did not think it necessary to tell this man that if was left to him under conditions which prohibited him from selling it.

“Oh, that’s all right. Want to keep up the price? Don’t blame you, but man, we are not out for huckstering over a little thing like this. Name your figure. Chuck this den, dear boy. Get some ready money. Live in the West End, and be seen where there’s money. Money makes money. Get your name on a few prospectuses. Marry a wealthy widow who wants a title.”

Maxwell threw his cigarette into the fireplace.

“I fear I trespass on you valuable, time, Mr Regan.”

“Want to think it over, I suppose. Well, good-day. Call in for me at one o’clock tomorrow and we’ll have a bit of lunch somewhere.”

“Good-bye, Mr Regan,” said Maxwell, ignoring the hand that was held out to him. With a look of disgust he banged the door, and, walking towards the mantelpiece and took down his pipe. His hand closed on the shabby pouch, and he realised that it was empty. The five guineas in his pocket suggested a remedy. He walked towards the door, and then, turning suddenly opened an old trunk and pulled out a suit of evening clothes. It had come into his mind that for once in a way he might just have a good dinner.

“Let us eat, drink, and be merry; tomorrow heaven knows what may happen,” he murmured to himself as he spread out the garments.

The well-dressed men and smartly gowned women in the West End restaurant would not have recognised the occupant of the derelict town house in the gentleman who ordered the best dinner on the card and chose a first-class wine.

Strolling into the lounge, Maxwell had coffee and a cigar and the finest liqueur to be obtained. “Five guineas will not carry me over many years at this pace,” he thought, as he settled his bill, and, by force of habit, handed the waiter a tip representing the price of a day’s rations in his own room.

“But it’s worth it to have lived for an hour,” he added, calling a motor-cab to complete the thing.

As the motor drew up in front of his house, a man on foot halted opposite it on the pavement. Maxwell recognised Howard Bedford, another director of the company next door. He lived at Brighton, but kept a room furnished in the offices in case he should miss his train.

“Hullo,” said Bedford, “Been out? It’s deuced lonely in this square at night can’t understand how you manage to exist here. I have an early appointment in the morning; beastly nuisance. Can I come in for a few minutes, or will you come in and have a smoke with me?”

He pushed his way through the half open door as he spoke.

“Wait till I get a light,” said Maxwell, still leaving the door half open. He trimmed his oil lamp, and changing his evening coat for a smoking jacket, lit the long-deferred pipe.

“You are a sport to stick it here. Family pride and all that sort of thing, I suppose; but what’s the odds, so long as you’re happy,” said Bedford, throwing himself into the chair which Mabel Seville had occupied early in the afternoon. His face was flushed and although Maxwell had fared well himself, he could see that the man had been drinking. They talked generalities for a few minutes, or rather Bedford talked. He was at that particular stage when nobody else is permitted to talk. After a while he began walking about the room, and speaking loudly, and laying down the law on every subject.

“I say, old man,” he said, stopping in front of Maxwell, who was standing with his elbow leaning on the mantelpiece, “can’t we have a night out together occasionally. I could show you round. You don’t know life, though you are a bit of a nut, you blighter, eh what?”

The man was one of that type of smart people who confuse impertinence with geniality. Maxwell’s lot had never before cast among that class of persons. He maintained a chilling silence.

“Oh, I know, Maxwell,” Bedford persisted. “I don’t suppose I am going to give you away, but you may as well own up that you have your fancies. Quite a nice little visitor you had this afternoon. I saw her going away, eh, you old fraud!”

“Stop that,” said Maxwell. The look in his eye would have been sufficient warning to most men, but Bedford with an offensive leer that was meant to be humorous, pursued the topic. “Never mind, old chap, only my fun.”

“There are some things well-bred men do not regard as fun.”

“No use asking for an introduction, I; suppose?”

“Will you stop that, curse you!”:

“Want to keep a good thing to yourself, don’t believe in passing it on? But, between pals, is it all right?” Bedford playfully prodded the baronet in the ribs, and then Maxwell’s pent-up passion broke loose.

“You infernal cad!” he shouted, and as he spoke he hit out with all the fierce strength of a man striking a blow for a woman.

CHAPTER 2

The Brisbane Courier, Saturday, 30 June 1917

HOWARD BEDFORD fell heavily under the weight of Maxwell’s arm among the old furniture.

A stream of blood trickled from the prostrate man’s nose. His head had come in contact with the arm of an old-fashioned sofa. His body slid to the floor and lay motionless at Maxwell’s feet.

There was no responsive movement as Maxwell endeavoured to help the man up; the form he held in his arms was limp and apparently lifeless. When he loosened his hold it dropped in a heap on the floor.

Stooping down again, he dragged the recumbent figure towards the sofa, and as he did so the sleeve of his smoking-jacket was smeared with blood.

He rushed to the cupboard for water, but found that the jug which he had brought in for the tea was empty. A can from which he filled his bath was also empty. Seizing it in his hand, he rushed out to the scullery along the dark corridor and through the kitchen.

He knew his way about the house so well that he did not carry a light. To-night, however, excitement made his foot-steps unsteady. As he lifted the can, weighted with water, down from the sink, he stumbled over it and crashed against the door leading into the kitchen. The door slammed, and the handle, grown rusty and loose, rolled on the floor.

Maxwell tried to pull it open, but could not turn back the catch. Cursing his own clumsiness, he dropped on his hands and knees and groped for the handle. It had rolled to the other end of the scullery. He lit a match, which burnt down to his fingers before he found the door knob.

He lit another match and another, and all the while the precious moments were hurrying by. He kicked the door in desperation, but as it opened inwards any effort at forcing it was useless.

After wasting much valuable time he decided on a systematic search, and husbanded his matches till at length, after groping from corner to corner, he discovered the object of his search.

In his effort to fix it to the small iron shaft he almost pushed the end through to the other side; very gently, with finger and thumb, he drew it back into position. Finally he got a sufficient hold with the handle to turn back the catch and free himself from the temporary imprisonment which he had so absurdly brought upon himself.

He had not the slightest idea how much time he had occupied, but he felt certain it must be too late to render effective assistance to the man whom he had struck down, if he were still alive.

Picking up the water-can he rushed back to the front room and stared wildly about him. He pressed his hands to his throbbing temples as he stood irresolutely in the doorway; then taking up the lamp he brought it over to the sofa.

Unable to believe the evidence of his eyes, he passed his hands over the moth-eaten upholstery. The body was gone!

He carried the lamp round the room, set it on the floor, dropped on his hands and knees to see if the man whom he had left lying there on the couch had rolled off under the table. His search only emphasised the fact that Howard Bedford had disappeared.

At first Maxwell thought his brain must be giving way. He had been acting under an illusion. The man had not been there; he had not knocked him down. Bathing his own head with the water which he had brought for his victim, he pieced together the incidents of the night. A red stain on the floor caught his eye. This was evidence enough that he had not been suffering under an illusion. The wine he had taken had quickened his blood, but it had not turned his brain.

He wanted fresh air, and he walked to the door. He found it ajar, and could not remember distinctly whether he had closed it firmly or not when he came in. He could hear the distant rumbling of the traffic in the main street, but not a solitary footfall disturbed the silence of the deserted square. He stepped across the pavement to the railings round the garden in the centre, and stood there hatless for a few minutes.

There was a slight breeze, and under its influence his aching head cooled. As he turned to walk back to the house he noticed a light in one of the upper windows next door.

“What a fool I am to frighten myself,” he said. “Of course, the fellow was only temporarily stunned, and while I was messing about with the beastly door he recovered sufficiently to get back to his own room. Well, I hope the lesson will do him good.”

He remembered that Bedford was staying the night in the apartments at the top of the offices.

The clock of a church in the next square struck midnight as he closed the door. Ordinarily he was in bed by this time, but the desire for sleep had been chased away by the excitement of the evening. The reaction after he had convinced him-self that the man whom he thought he had killed was alive and all the better for his chastening hand filled him with the joy of living, and again the inclination to go back to his own world for an hour took possession of him.

What, after all, was a dinner without good company to follow? Mrs. Wynter-Smith’s dance would be at its best just now! Why not drop in and pass away the small hours with charming women and high spirited men.

Without giving himself time to lapse into a more gloomy mood he threw the smoking-jacket into a corner of the room and again put on his evening coat.

Hurrying out into the main street he hailed a passing taxi.

AS HE GAVE his name to the powdered man-servant a lady who was crossing the hall rushed forward to greet him.

“Sir Clifford, what a delightful surprise,” said Mrs. Wynter- Smith. “It is indeed an honour to have dragged you out of your hermitage.”

Radiant with the pride of a successful hostess her sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks matched the handsome gown and rich jewellery. She was still quite young. There was a difference between her and Mabel Neville. Mabel was pretty; this woman was beautiful.

She triumphantly produced one guest after another, but Maxwell found very few people there whom he knew. He had dropped out of London life, and the people he met at Mrs. Wynter-Smith’s were not the circle among whom the old baronet had moved.

Mabel Neville was frankly delighted to see him. She thought her appeal to him earlier in the evening was responsible for his presence, and he did not undeceive her. He was not a dancing man at the best, and the latest valses were strange to him, but with girlish confidence she insisted on acting as his partner and instructress.

When other partners claimed her he wandered about till he found himself in a corner of the ballroom with Mrs. Wynter- Smith.

“And am I to have the privilege of knowing that it has fallen to my lot to bring you out?” she asked.

“The privilege would be mine under such auspices,” he said, dropping into the platitudes of small talk instinctively with his return to society.

“You speak as though it were a supposition, not a fact,” she said. “Is your first experience after your retirement not sufficient to tempt you?” she asked, looking up at him with a bewitching appeal in her eyes.

“Nothing more would be needed,” he said. “But I am doomed to my work.”

“Oh yes, you and John Shepherd are a pair of martyrs to work. I wonder why he allows Mabel to have such a frivolous friend as myself. It is really scandalous that such a sweet girl should be condemned to a musty old library, and all because her guardian has a bee in his bonnet. If he must have assistance to look after his dreary papers and letters, why doesn’t he employ some-body who really needs the work. After all, Mabel is his ward.”

“I understand he has an idea that men and women should be trained to work,” said Maxwell, “and I could wish my grandfather had cherished the same belief.”

“Oh, yes, I know that is a fad of his, and now we are getting into an argument, and I know I shall get the worst of it with a clever man like you. Oh, here is Mr. Edmond Brand. All the best men seem to be coming in late. Now you won’t tell any of the earlier arrivals that I said that, will you?” she said, tapping him with a fan as she left him to meet an immaculately dressed person who stood watching the scene from the open door.

He was a handsome man of a certain type, with regular features and a well-proportioned figure. He had the easy carriage of one who does everything correctly, and is well aware of the fact. His eyes wandered round the room till they lighted on Mabel Neville waltzing with a partner whose perfection in the art set off her own graceful dancing.

He was still watching her when Mrs. Wynter-Smith approached him. Without abruptly withdrawing his gaze from the immediate object of his attention he turned to his hostess with just the proper degree of smiling courtesy suited to the occasion. When the dance concluded he moved among the people with an ease which Maxwell found himself comparing to his own incurable clumsiness.

Without ignoring the others he contrived to appropriate Mabel Neville, although Maxwell thought he detected a suspicion of a desire on her part to avoid him. With a slight movement of his eyes he beckoned Mrs. Wynter-Smith towards him, and the three stood chat-ting together for some moments.

“I think you two have met,” said Mrs. Wynter-Smith, leading him to Maxwell, “and therefore as I must run away I am going to say at once that you really must accept the invitation which Mr. Brand is going to give you for a pleas-ant little shooting party at his house in Hertfordshire. Mabel is going with us; I will make John Shepherd agree to that even if I have to bully him into it. You are sure to have a good time, isn’t he, Mr Brand?”

“I shall be delighted if Sir Clifford Maxwell will join us.” said Brand “The notice is rather short, I am afraid. We go down to-morrow; I have delayed it until my keepers tell me the birds are absolutely becoming a nuisance. There are plenty of guns and cartridges there, so no preparations are necessary, May I count on you, Sir Clifford?”

Maxwell was about to excuse himself when he noticed Mabel looking at him wistfully from behind Mr. Brand’s shoulder. “Oh, yes, of course you’ll come, won’t you, Sir Clifford? Let me take it as settled before I run away,” said Mrs. Wynter-Smith.

Before he could raise it, Maxwell had agreed to meet the party at Easton the following day, and with a placid smile of acceptance Edmond Brand moved away, taking Mabel with him.

WHEN MAXWELL woke up the following morning he thought ruefully of the meagre balance of his five guinea. There was nothing to buy. Brand had delicately intimated this to him, but even the small expenses were a forbidden luxury to Maxwell in his present circumstances. He was wondering how he might now decline the engagement gracefully when the unaccustomed sound of a postman’s double rap on the door brought him out of bed.

He very rarely received letters nowadays, and as he read this one a look of amazement swept over his face.

CHAPTER 3

The Brisbane Courier, Saturday, 7 July 1917

THE letter addressed to “Sir Clifford Maxwell, Bart,” opened up visions of new life.

When a man has been contemplating the prospects of starvation in England or banishment to the wild woods, an urgent request from solicitors for an interview “relative to important matters connected with his estate,” might at first sound like a mockery.

But the letter from Messrs. Waddington and White had all the tone of a communication from a substantial and serious people, and moreover they proceeded to inform Sir Clifford Maxwell, Bart., that as certain property had devolved upon him through trusts, it was necessary that they should have immediate instructions from him “there anent.” Could he make it convenient to call upon them at his earliest possible convenience at their offices?

The said offices being situate in Manchester, it was necessary that Maxwell should set out that very morning. The money that remained over from his five guinea would be quite sufficient to take him there, and the purport of the letter gave him every reason to expect that he might safely leave the rest to chance. Without waiting to clear up the room he crammed some things into a portmanteau which bore outward signs of having seen better days, and caught the 10 o’clock train at Easton.

Just before the train was starting he remembered that he should have set out from this station a little later in the day for Hertfordshire. He could not repress a feeling of pride in the thought that if and when he next accepted such an invitation he would be in a position to return the other man’s hospitality.

He sent a wire to Edmond Brand, in-forming him that he was compelled to leave town on urgent business.

In the afternoon he found himself sit-ting opposite a benevolent, middle-aged gentleman, the senior partner in the firm, listening to a placid statement which, in his present circumstances sounded rather like an Inspiring story from a fairy godmother.

“The circumstances, Sir Clifford,” said Mr. Waddington, “must, I admit, appear somewhat unusual, although not In the strict sense of the term irregular. A certain sum of money was placed in our hands on trust to invest the same subject to certain conditions, the precise nature of which we are not at liberty to disclose, and we were directed to purchase a certain piece of land in Lancashire for the benefit of your late father if he were alive, with reversion to you at the happening of a certain event which, according to the Baronetage and the records of Somerset House, has now been fulfilled, namely, the attainment by yourself of the age of thirty.”

“Good gracious, yes,” said Clifford with a nervous laugh, “yesterday was my birthday. These anniversaries have had comparatively little interest for me of late, but I am interrupting you.”

“Such being the case,” continued Mr. Waddington, still keeping strictly to the thread of his statement, “the property becomes yours, and hence the necessity for this interview. We were not permitted to inform you before, and, moreover, I might parenthetically mention that even had you known of it, any possibility of anticipating the income was absolutely and effectively barred. The matter is urgent because a rich seam of coal has been discovered under the property, and apart from the value of the minerals there are already applications for sites on the surface for factories. Coal, as you are aware, will always attract other industries. In a very short time it will be the most valuable piece of property of Its kind in England.

“If I may say so, it has fallen into your lap like a ripe apple, Sir Clifford.”

“Like a whole orchard of apples under present conditions,” replied Maxwell frankly. “But I understand you cannot tell me to whom I am indebted for this extraordinary piece of luck.”

“I would not say that you are precisely ‘indebted,’ Sir Clifford, and I hope you will excuse me if I adhere strictly to the terms of the trust imposed upon me. Of course, as it was originally purchased from the former owner and conveyed to us in due form, there is no difficulty about giving a good title to any purchaser. There is a condition, by the way, which I presume you will have little difficulty in fulfilling. You at present occupy a town house which came to you on trust from your father.”

“Yes, the trust imposed upon me did not permit me to sell it or to mortgage it or even to raise money on it in any way for necessary repairs; in fact, Mr. Waddington, with all due respect to the memory of my late father, of whom I unhappily knew very little, it has been a white elephant.”

“Yes, Sir Clifford, I am well aware of the sad family circumstances. Your father and mother both died abroad when you were quite a child, and you were brought up by your grandfather, the late baronet. I am also aware of the financial conditions under which you succeeded to the title, and in these circumstances the upkeep of your town house must have proved embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing is a very mild term, Mr. Waddington. At the very time when your letter arrived I was on the point of chucking up the sponge, leaving the house to go its own way to the devil, and ridding myself of the burden of rates and taxes, because, to put it quite plainly, the little ready money which had come to me was exhausted and except for certain stray literary work that came to me spasmodically I was without visible means of sustenance.”

“I am happy to have been the medium of informing you that these difficulties have now disappeared, Sir Clifford,” said Mr. Waddington. “But the trust still remains, and although you are financially in a position to ignore it, there is a condition in this trust also that you shall strictly observe any trust imposed on you by your late father, and this would appear to extend to that which concerns your town house.”

“Oh, I should not be likely to sell the old house under any circumstances. It has sheltered me at all events, and it would be like throwing over a pal because you happen to be better off.”

“That sentiment does you credit, if I may say so, Sir Clifford. And now I am afraid I shall have to ask your attention to a few somewhat dry details. You can spare a few days, I hope.”

“I want to get back to London as quickly as possible,” said Maxwell.

The desire to join the party in Hertfordshire was strong upon him now; for some reason which he could not exactly define he wanted to meet Edmond Brand on equal terms.

“We will be as expeditious as possible,” said Mr. Waddington. “But you will agree that such an estate as this deserves a little attention.”

Maxwell was bound to see the reason of this argument.

“It is possible,” added Mr. Wadding-ton, “that having left London somewhat hurriedly you may require a little ready money.”

“Very nicely put, Mr. Waddington,” said Maxwell smiling. “In plain English, I have not enough either here or in London for that matter to pay hotel bills and get home again.”

The solicitor unlocked a safe, and handed over a small roll of bank notes.

“That will be sufficient I presume, for present purposes,” he said; “I trust you will feel yourself at liberty to draw on us until you have made your own banking arrangements.”

The possession of ready money is perhaps the best tonic for a jaded man who has known the want of it. Maxwell up to this moment had felt himself more or less of a child receiving the benevolence of an indulgent grown-up. As his fingers closed on the crisp banknotes he realised more completely the fact that he now possessed the power to indulge others.

“You will not be in a hurry to raise, I presume,” said Mr. Waddington. “In fact, if I may advise you, it would be as well, perhaps, to look to an offer carefully. I mention this because there is already an application to purchase the property at a good figure from the Ajax Land Development Company. The company of which Regan and Bedford were directors!”

“I won’t sell it to them,” said Maxwell emphatically, striking the desk with the palm of his hand. “Write and tell them that you have consulted your client, and that Sir Clifford Maxwell declines to sell.”

“The offer is a good one, but perhaps you are wise,” said Mr. Waddington judicially.

Matters connected with the estate occupied Maxwell’s attention for another four days and on Sunday he set out for London. He had come to Manchester third-class; he went back first. In the railway carriage big thoughts wandered over the brief eventful career which had been his lot up to now. The last time he travelled on the East line he had landed at Liverpool and was on his way to London, where the sentence of poverty awaited him from the Maxwell family solicitors.

How different the prospect now! Bubbling over with good nature, he got into conversation with his fellow-passengers.

“Strange thing that disappearance of a London company director,” remarked one of them, spreading out an early edition of an evening paper.

“Afraid I don’t know anything about it,” said Maxwell. “I have been very busy and have not seen the newspapers.”

“Oh, I suppose the truth is the fellow is in a hole and is keeping out of the way till things get a bit better,” said his travelling companion. “Chap should have turned up to an appointment early on Tuesday morning, but did not put in an appearance. They made inquiries at his office and his house in the country, and nobody knows what has happened to him.”

“There is only one of two explanations,” said a jolly-faced north country-man in the corner; “it’s either the brass or the lass. You can put most things down to one or t’other.”

“Another version of the old truism, ‘hunger and love rule the world,’” said Maxwell with a laugh.

“Well, that is the fancy way of putting it, but it comes to the same thing,” retorted the man in the corner.

The conversation drifted on to other subjects, and the gentleman folded up his paper.

It was late at night when Maxwell arrived in London. At first he thought of going to an hotel, but an inclination took possession of him to go back to his own old room for one more night. There would be a certain satisfaction in waking up in its depressing environment with the feeling that this was the end of a horrible dream.

He let himself in with his latch-key and groped his way along the passage. He laughed to himself at the thought that his little economies had included the absence of a hall lamp. He knew exactly the spot in the room where the oil lamp would be. He had walked to it so many times in the dark that he could calculate the exact number of steps to take before lighting the one match which he needed for the purpose.

By force of habit he did things to-night exactly as he had done them before. His outstretched hand touched the box of matches on the corner of the side table.

He lifted the lamp shade, and knew exactly where to deposit it in the dark.

Opening the box he struck a match. He was shielding it with his hand, when something gripped the back of his neck like a vice.