The Turn of the Tide E-Book

Fred M. White

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

An old-fashioned frivolous firm for a long time, which more progressive competitors talk about with good-natured contempt, they were still in the markets of the business world. They called themselves ordinary merchants selling mixed goods from all over the world, and, as people say, Mortimer Croot, the current sole owner, was considered a person of integrity and being. He had been manager and confidential clerk to an ailing owner, and when the latter was no more Croot quite naturally stepped into all there was left of the once great concern, together with the freehold house in Great Bower Street where the business was carried on.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. VERITY & CO., LTD

II. CROMBIES WHARF

III. A BROKEN LIFE

IV. THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

V. LOCK IS PUZZLED

VI. FOUND DROWNED

VII. ARCADES AMBO

VIII. A WOMAN’S WAY

IX. THE TEA-TIME HOUR

X. A MONTH’S ADJOURNMENT

XI. A MIDNIGHT INTRUDER

XII. THE NAVAL GROUP

XIII. 17 GREENCORN STREET

XIV. THE PATIENT WATCHER

XV. BEHIND THE DOOR

XVI. DOWN THE RIVER

XVII. THE LATCH KEY

XVIII. VERA’S GHOST

XIX. IN THE LABORATORY

XX. THE MAJOR SPEAKS

XXI. THE LIVE WIRE

XXII. THE KAMALOO COPPER TRUST

XXIII. THE LETTER BOOK

XXIV. FINDING THE PROOFS

XXV. THE CASE OF CIGARS

XXVI. THE HIDING-PLACE

XXVII. IN THE TRAP

XXVIII. ONE WAY OUT

XXIX. EXODUS

XXX. CROOT’S WAY OUT

I. VERITY & CO., LTD

The offices of Verity & CO. were situated in Great Bower Street, and had been a feature there for over two centuries. An old-fashioned easy-going firm from the old days, and spoken of with good-natured contempt by more progressive rivals, they were still out in the markets of the world for business, albeit there had not been a Verity in the firm for more than fifty years. They called themselves general merchants trading in mixed cargoes from all parts of the world and, as men go, Mortimer Croot, the present sole proprietor, was regarded as a man of integrity and substance. For fifteen years he had been manager and confidential clerk to an ailing owner, and when the latter was no more Croot quite naturally stepped into all there was left of the once great concern, together with the freehold house in Great Bower Street where the business was carried on. He was a man of fifty now, but looking a great deal less with his alert easy carriage and wiry upright figure and those blue-grey eyes looking out searchingly under shaggy brows. It seemed strange to those who knew him that Croot should be content to carry on in much the same way as his predecessors had done, and in the same old grimy offices looking out at the back on the Thames and in front contemplating a street of gloom and dirt as dingy and ruinous as a decayed tooth in an otherwise healthy set. Not a penny had been spent there any time the last three decades; no paint had brightened up the black front of those offices, which were just the same as they had been when George III was king and the Verities lived over the offices and warehouses, and footpads roamed the waterways by the river and the City lanes almost unmolested. The walls of the house were thick enough to withstand a siege almost, and most of the gloomy offices had iron bars still in front of the windows on the ground floor and basement. Behind the house lay a wide bare strip of ground which had once been a flourishing landing-place bordering on the river, and this was still known as Crombies Wharf, though it had been derelict as long as anyone in the City could remember. There were buildings on it still, strong buildings made of stone and with small windows now all boarded up as a protection against such of the Thames-side youth as disported themselves there after the tide of business had turned for the day. But Croot only smiled when it was suggested to him that he might get good money for this derelict land, and hinted vaguely that he knew what he was doing, and that in time his business friends would find that he was not so easy-going as he looked. So long as he had all he needed with enough for his wants and a little to spare and his charming house at Cray presided over by his adopted daughter Vera, he was not going to worry himself about money-grubbing...

The daily task was nearly over, and most of the staff had already left with the exception of the confidential clerk, Mark Gilmour, Miss Patricia Langley, private secretary and typist, and Geoffrey Rust, a subordinate who held a somewhat remarkable position in the office. He was a young man obviously set in the mould that turns out the clean and healthy athlete from our great public schools and universities. Not particularly handsome, for his features were too irregular, but very wholesome and good to look at, as more than one of his lady friends willingly testified. He was exceedingly well-dressed, his manners were easy and perfect, and he gave the idea of one who has not a single care in the world.

Discipline was relaxed now, and Rust was laughing and chatting with Patricia Langley in the outer office, beyond which the head of the firm was still at his desk. Pat Langley was a dark vivacious beauty, rather small, but with a perfect figure and a smiling face, which was, however, full of strength and resolution, as befitted one who, well-born and educated, had found herself face to face with the world at twenty-one, and had risen superior to her troubles. And she liked Geoffrey Rust perhaps more than she knew.

“Something attempted, something done, to earn a night’s repose,” Rust chanted. “Do you like the strenuous life, Pat?”

“Have you ever tried it?” the girl asked dryly.

“Oh, come! Haven’t I been here every day for two years bar holidays? Am I not the little ray of sunshine in the office? But, thank goodness, my sentence is nearly worked out.”

“And you come into your inheritance,” Pat said thoughtfully.

“Regular romance, isn’t it?” Rust said, showing his even teeth in that attractive smile of his. “City idyll with the real Daily Recorder flair. Pathetic orphan and only son of the type of Roman father who lives for business and never sees his loving offspring if he can avoid it. Dies in Spartan solitude, leaving a will to the effect that his white-haired boy shall, on leaving Oxford, go into a City office for two years and earn his living by the sweat of his brow for the said two years or forfeit his–what’s the word?–patrimony. And I’ve done it, Pat. Now that it is nearly finished I don’t regret it. Otherwise I should never have met you.”

Patricia Langley smiled with a shadow of wild rose on her cheeks. Before she could reply Mortimer Croot came out of his office with his hat and overcoat on. He smiled in his turn. There was very little of the martinet about the head of the firm.

“I’m going now, Miss Langley,” he said. “You might post the private letters that I have left on my desk. I shall have the pleasure of meeting you both again to-night, so I will not say adieu. Rust, you might tell Gilmour that I want him a moment.”

Gilmour came in, well set up, grim and clean-shaven, with his suggestion of strength and reserve, very like a well-educated and gentlemanly prize-fighter, as Rust always thought. In the office it was whispered that Gilmour had a past, though nobody really knew anything, and Gilmour himself never made a friend of any of them. He had come there three years ago, and Croot had simply stated that in future everybody must take their orders from Gilmour whenever the head of the firm was absent. And so it remained.

“You wanted me, sir?” Gilmour asked in his quiet way.

“Only just to remind you,” Croot replied genially. “Don’t forget it is my little girl’s birthday dinner to-night. We shall be disappointed if you turn us down, Gilmour.”

Croot smiled pleasantly enough, but it seemed to Rust, usually the most unsuspecting of mortals, that he detected a challenge in his employer’s eyes, and an answering gleam in Gilmour’s.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” the latter replied. “But those last lot of quotations must be posted to-night. If I can’t manage it, may I come down some time later in the evening, sir?”

Croot replied suitably, and Gilmour went back to his office. He was the sort of man who seems to love work for its own sake, and most evenings he was at his post till late and everybody else had gone, letting himself out and locking up, for the firm were of the old type that did not employ a resident watchman.

“I never cottoned to that chap somehow,” Rust said to Miss Langley as they turned into the street. “And I hope he will never capture our little Vera. But I don’t think Croot would stand that. Besides, Jack Ellis would have a word to say. May I walk as far as Cannon Street with you?”

Pat Langley also lived at Cray, and when Rust had seen her into her train he called a taxi and was wafted off to his own luxurious quarters in Orchard Street, for his daily work in the City by no means implied that he was on short commons so far as money was concerned. And very soon he would be his own master.

Though he passed most of his days in the dingy, dilapidated offices in Great Bower Street, Geoffrey Rust had his own circle of friends in the West End, and, of course, the fellow employés in the firm of Verity & Co. knew very little about this. So long as Geoffrey complied with what he regarded as the onerous terms of his father’s will, what he did with his spare time was his own business entirely. Before he went home to his rooms in Orchard Street to dress for the dinner that Croot was giving that night in honour of his adopted daughter’s birthday at the Moat House, Cray, which the young man would reach in his own car, he turned into the United Field Club for a cigarette and a cup of tea, and a chat with such kindred spirits in the world of sport as he was likely to meet there. The smoking-room was empty when he entered, and presently there came in a man who hailed him with enthusiasm.

This was his own particular friend Jack Ellis. He and Ellis had been at the same public school, and subsequently at Oxford together, where they had played for their College cricket eleven, and were both finally tried for the university team. They had neither of them got quite far enough for that crowning glory, but they were well known as two polished and reliable bats, and members of the famous and exclusive M.C.C. At holiday times they toured the country together, playing in various local cricket festivals, where they were both welcome guests.

Ellis, however, had his own living to get. He was an Irishman, and the only son of a man who had been a popular K.C. in his time, and who had died before he could achieve the fortune which at one time had seemed inevitable. He had, however, given his son what had seemed to him to be the best of educations, and when he died, Jack had to look to himself. He had been called to the Bar a year or two before, and, whilst waiting for briefs, was obtaining quite a good living in free-lance journalism. He had a graphic and fluent pen, and a positive thirst for adventure. He was a man utterly without fear, brave, and strong, with a strength which his somewhat slender figure altogether belied. He knew the East End like an open book; he had been in opium dens and dubious public houses, where many a robbery had been planned, and on more than one occasion had rendered Scotland Yard a distinct service. Just at the present moment he was deeply interested in the amazing series of robberies which were taking place almost daily on the Thames. Barges and lighters had been relieved of thousands of pounds’ worth of valuable goods, and the river-police were at their wits’ end to lay their hands upon the most daring and ingenious set of water-rats that the head of the service had come in contact with for many a long day. Ellis had suggested to the editor of the Daily Telephone that he should take up the matter on behalf of that great journal, and do his best to succeed where the authorities had failed. He pointed out that nothing might come of it, but if, on the other hand, he achieved success, then it would be a wonderful advertisement for the smartest of the morning journals.

The editor of the paper in question had jumped at the suggestion; he had placed ample funds at Ellis’s discretion, and, for three months now, the latter had haunted the lower regions of the Thames almost night and day. So far, he had had no substantial success, but he was on the track of a daring and utterly unscrupulous gang now, and his hopes were high. During the past year, thieves had stolen from various lighters and barges property to the value of nearly a million sterling, and though some of the smaller fry had fallen into the hands of the police, the big men behind the conspiracy were, as yet, unknown. And they were quite big men, some of them, as Ellis had good reason to know. Despite his hot Irish blood, and that quick impulsiveness of his, he had a wonderful patience which would have surprised his friends, had they only known of it, and so he was waiting his time till he could strike a blow at the very root of the conspiracy.

Something of this he had confided to Rust; at any rate, Rust knew what his friend was doing, and on more than one occasion he had been out at night on the river in the swift little petrol launch which the Telephone had placed at the disposal of their commissioner. There was just the spice of danger about the proceeding which appealed to Rust’s sporting instincts. It was he who introduced Ellis to the household at the Moat House, and, therefore, was more or less responsible for the fact that the Irishman had fallen over head and ears in love with Croot’s adopted daughter, Vera.

“Ah, here we are,” Ellis cried. “And, bedad, you are just the man I want to see. If you’ve got nothing better to do, perhaps you would like to join me to-night.”

“An adventure, Sir Galahad, an adventure,” Rust smiled. “I gather from your manner that it is something big, eh?”

“Well, that is as it may be,” Ellis said a little more seriously. “But I am on the track, my boy, I’m on the track, and when the explosion comes, it will be a mighty big one. The man behind the whole scheme is a prize fish, and the public will sit up and take notice when the Telephone is in a position to speak. It is only a side show to-night, but if it comes off, then I shall have my fingers on a thread that ought to lead right to the centre of the web. I’d like to count upon you, Geoffrey.”

“It sounds tempting enough,” Rust observed. “But I am afraid there is nothing doing, so far as I am concerned. I have got an engagement I cannot possibly get out of. You see, it’s Vera Croot’s twentieth birthday, and the old man is giving a dinner in her honour at the Moat House.”

Ellis’s smiling face clouded slightly.

“Begad, I had almost forgotten that,” he said. “In happier circumstances, I should be there myself, but old man Croot has a strong illogical prejudice against me. He seems to have got it into his head that I am keen on Vera myself.”

“Well, isn’t it true?” Rust asked.

“Bejabers, you’re right there, old man, and I’ll not deny it to an old friend like yourself. I was a fool, Geoff, I ought to have kept my thoughts to myself. Vera knows all about them, bless her, and she is just as miserable about the whole business as I am. Then, one night, three months ago, when I still had the run of Moat House, and was dining there, I was fool enough to sound the old man on the subject of the little darlin’. But I think I told you all about it before.”

“I seem to have some recollection of it,” Rust said dryly.

“Ah, now it’s poking fun at me, you are. And I am dead in earnest, and if Vera is only willing I’ll marry her in the face of a thousand Croots. She is not his flesh and blood, after all, and I am making enough to keep her quite comfortably. But what’s the use of me talking like this? I have got the key of the street, so far as the Moat House is concerned, with a strong hint not to show my face there again. Oh, the old man was friendly enough, very bland and fatherly, and sort of sorry for the white-haired boy who dared to lift his eyes to one of the prettiest girls in the country, and a great heiress to boot. But he hasn’t done with Jack Ellis yet.”

As he spoke, Ellis dropped his voice and a fighting gleam came into his eyes. Something had evidently stirred him to the depths, and, just for a moment, the sunny, inconsequent Irishman had disappeared, and the primitive man seemed to be carved on his face.

“Why, what’s the matter?” Rust cried.

“Ah, well,” Ellis said, obviously forcing a laugh. “Tragedy is not in my line, though I have been getting pretty close to it in the last few days. But let’s forget it. Perhaps you think I have overlooked the fact of Vera’s birthday, but not so, my son, not so. I have a little thing here in my pocket that I want you to give her to-night when you get a quiet opportunity, and tell her that Jack Ellis is not the man to change.”

“With pleasure,” Rust said. “There are hidden depths in you, Jack, that few people give you credit for. But I know, and if all goes well, then Vera will be a lucky girl.”

“That is very nice of you, Geoff,” Ellis said with a certain sincerity. “I don’t know so much about being a lucky girl, but I shall be a very fortunate man. And how is your little affair going on? You know what I mean!”

“What little affair are you speaking about?”

Oh, come off it, Geoff; you never were made for a diplomatist. Vera isn’t the only girl in the world. I’ was speaking of Patricia Langley. Do you think I am blind?”

“Ah, well,” Rust said. “I suppose onlookers see most of the game. But Pat Langley has her father to think of. As long as the poor old major is in his present state of health she is not likely to listen to anything that I have to say. We are very good friends, and, indeed, I hope something more, but for the present I have to possess my soul in patience.”

“Then, bedad, we’re in the same boat,” Ellis cried. “Still, you are a bloated plutocrat, living on unearned increment, and I am a poor devil of a hack journalist. Now, just let’s have one cocktail together, and I must be off. I am only too sorry that I haven’t you to rely upon to-night.”

II. CROMBIES WHARF

Left to himself in the solitude of the dingy old offices in Great Bower Street, Mark Gilmour sat down at his desk in a small back room looking out over the Thames, and proceeded to immerse himself in a mass of correspondence. He had the whole office for his own since the last of the clerks had departed, and a supreme silence reigned everywhere. At that hour in the evening Great Bower Street was absolutely deserted, for it was a business quarter entirely, and, save for a caretaker or night watchman here and there, there was probably not a soul within a quarter of a mile. Outside a gentle rain had commenced to fall through a curtain of fog, which rendered the young March night thick as a blanket. From time to time Gilmour could hear shouts and calls from the river, and occasionally a heavy dray rumbled along the cobbled street. The mice were busy behind the rotting wainscot and the decayed oak panelling on the walls. Once a rat ran across the floor, and dived into a hole by the side of what once had been a magnificent marble fireplace in the old days when Great Bower Street had been a residential quarter for opulent City merchants, what time George III was king. A big grandfather’s clock ticked lazily in the corner of the office, and as it struck the hour of eight Gilmour rose and put away the mass of papers before him in a safe.

He appeared to have forgotten entirely that, at that very moment, he was due to dine at the Moat House, and if he had any recollection of this, then there was no sign of disappointment or regret upon that hard, white, battling face of his.

Long before this, he had closed the shutters of the office facing the river, so that not a single ray of light showed through the dusty, cobweb-clad window panes. He listened with a certain dour satisfaction to the dripping rain outside, then he crossed over and pressed his hand upon a spring in the centre of one of the oak panels, which seemed to release a slide, for one of the panels slipped back, exposing a square dark space beyond, from which he took a luncheon basket and carelessly emptied the contents upon the table. He ate the half of a chicken, and drank one or two whiskies and sodas, after which he put the basket back in its hiding-place and took from the same hidden receptacle a suit of blue dungaree overalls and a pair of top boots, india-rubber shod, which he drew over his own neat brown brogues.

Once this was done, he placed an electric torch in his pocket and went down into the black airless basement. This was devoted to offices now, and store-rooms for old ledgers and papers. Right at the back of what once had been a scullery was a at stone in the floor, which Gilmour lifted with apparent ease, disclosing a flight of steps below, leading, presumedly, into the bowels of the earth. He flashed his torch into this forbidding opening, and whistled a few bars between his teeth. Then a head appeared, followed by a body, and Gilmour was no longer alone.

“That’s right, Joe,” he said. “Nothing like being punctual. What sort of a night is it?”

“A real beauty for us,” the intruder said, in a voice that was hard and husky. “Black as your hat, and a fine rain falling. Can’t see your hand in front of you. I have known the river pretty well all my life, but it took me all my time to get across. Got anything to drink about, mister?”

Without further preamble, Gilmour led the way up the stairs into his office. He watched his visitor keenly as the latter proceeded to pour a generous measure of almost raw spirit down his throat. He saw a short, thick-set individual with broad shoulders and legs like pillars standing before him, a man with a hard repulsive face and dreadful bloodshot eyes that bespoke a nature capable of anything. In his thick pilot jacket and trousers he conveyed the impression of one who is familiar with the sea and, indeed, his appearance did not belie him, for Joe Airey had been bred and born on the Thames side, and had passed most of his life in coasting vessels, and at one time might, indeed, have become a Thames pilot, but for the fact that he had found it impossible to remain sober for a week at a time. For the rest, he was utterly unscrupulous, hated work in every shape or form, but was ready to undergo untold danger and prolonged privation if he could only see a suitable reward at the end of it. He had been in jail more than once, and it was characteristic of the man that he was not in the least ashamed of the fact. From Gilmour’s point of view he was a treasure, and the money that constantly found its way into his pocket from Croot’s manager was exceedingly well-earned.

“It’s a rare nice crib you’ve got ‘ere, guv’nor,” Airey exclaimed, as he glanced round the room. “Safer than any church, and bang on the spot. Might have been made for our purpose.”

“I suspect it was,” Gilmour said with one of his acid smiles. “You may depend upon it that the original Verity did a good deal in the smuggling line, or he would have blocked up those passages long ago. You see, this house was once part of the Tower defences, hence that secret waterway at the side of Crombies Wharf, and the underground passage leading to the house. But we needn’t worry about that. What have you got to-night?”

“Magnetos,” Airey whispered hoarsely. “About fifty cases of them, a nice compact little cargo, not taking up much room, and worth Gawd knows what, once we get ‘em back to Germany again. But that’s your business, guv’nor. I taps the stuff, and you shoves it away. Been trackin’ it for days, I ‘ave. They unloads it off the steamer Konig, and tows it up the river in a barge, not three hundred yards away, waiting to be unloaded, and only one man aboard and ‘im not very much good.”

“Lord, what a set of fools they are,” Gilmour muttered. “After all the warnings they have had, too. Only one man, you say?”

“Well, there was two, guv’nor,” Airey laughed coarsely. “But one of ‘em put ashore for a drink, and ‘e goes into one of the pubs we knows of, so I follows and gives the landlord a tip, and they put ‘im to sleep proper between them. The cove I speak of won’t be aboard the barge much afore to-morrow night, anyway.”

“Then we had better get along,” Gilmour said.

He was the man of action now, keen-eyed, quick and alert, with his fighting jaw stuck out, and a resolute look on his face. Satisfying himself that the front door was closed and fastened, he made his way, followed by his companion, into the scullery, and thence down the stone steps along a slimy dripping passage that ended presently in a large room, not unlike an underground swimming-bath, which was situated in the very foundations of the ruined building with the boarded-up windows on Crombies Wharf. There was at least five feet of water on the floor, and floating on it a small collapsible launch driven by a small but powerful motor engine.

“Ah, what a beauty,” Airey said huskily. “The fastest little craft on the Thames. And silent, too, as mother’s grave. But we’d better get along, guy ‘nor.”

“If the tide is right,” Gilmour said.

“Which it is, mister. It’s right for two hours, anyway. You get up the grating, and we’ll be off.”

Without further comment Gilmour proceeded to set certain unseen machinery in motion. Then the slimy wooden wall at the far side of the building rose slowly and creakily some four or five feet, disclosing a sort of slip berth capable of holding a large barge beyond, and a few minutes later the launch had slid out of this on to the bosom of the Thames, where the ebb-tide was running strongly. On this, Airey took the helm and, pausing a moment to get his bearings, shot Out into mid-stream. There were lights here and there, and occasionally some shouted order on the deck of an unseen steamer that loomed up, ghostly in the fog, through the curtain of fine rain. It was as if they had drifted into another world, but Airey knew exactly what he was doing, and steered the silent little launch along as if he were in the broad light of day.

They came presently with intense caution, and just touched the side of a barge. Airey made the launch secure, and then he and his companion climbed softly On to the deck. It was littered with small packages in deal cases, and Airey chuckled under his breath as he called Gilmour’s attention to them.

“There’s the stuff,” he whispered. “Ml very politely and kindly laid out for us, as if we was expected. It almost goes to one’s ‘eart to rob people as confiding as them. No, we’ll just go down the caboose and truss up the cove down there, and with any luck, with two or three voyages, we’ll ‘ave the whole of the boodle stowed away on the wharf in a couple of hours.”

Silently as cats, they crossed the deck and crept down the companion ladder into the cabin. A man smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper was seated there in an attitude of easy security, but he was not quite as indifferent to his surroundings as the intruders had thought. His ear had caught a suspicious sound and, almost before Gilmour was in the cabin, he was on his feet. He clutched an iron bar lying by the side of the table, and flung it with all his force in Gilmour’s face. It struck him on the shoulder and glanced oft. Then the man’s face strangely altered, and a sudden cry broke from his lips.

“Lieutenant Ray!” he exclaimed. “I thought you was dead. What are you doing here, you dirty dog?”

Gilmour made no reply. He dashed headlong at the speaker, and caught him by the throat. Airey hung on round the loins of the unfortunate watchman, who was forced to his knees. But the fighting light still blazed in his eyes.

“I know you,” he said. “I know you now, and I know what you was doing when I see you last week. Gawd, do you want to murder me? ‘Ere, ‘elp, ‘elp. They’ll do for me.”

“All right, I’m coming,” a voice cried from the deck. “Hold on a minute, Bill; fend ‘em off.”

It was then that Gilmour showed the stuff he was made of. He dashed his fist to the point of the watchman’s jaw, and the latter fell senseless without so much as a groan. Five seconds later, Gilmour and Airey were on the deck of the barge, and making for their boat. They waited not an instant to see in what strength the allies were, but dropped into the launch and, a minute later, were speeding for the shore, taking every risk in their headlong flight for safety. They could hear the alarm raised, then a shot or two and, as if by magic, a police boat came looming out of the fog almost on top of them. Followed another shout and a shrill whistle, and a further police boat moved right across their track. “There’s only one thing to be done,” Gilmour muttered. “Get out your knife and slit her up, Joe.”

In less time than it takes to tell, the trim little craft began to sink, and the occupants were swimming for their lives. With his hand on Airey’s shoulder, Gilmour struck out, confident in the local knowledge of his companion. This was not misplaced, for they came at length to the slip, and a few minutes later, spent and breathless, were behind the screen under the old house in Crombies Wharf. The screen was down at length, and they crept along the underground passage till Gilmour’s office was reached.

“There’s isn’t a moment to lose,” he gasped. “Did you ever know such infernal bad luck? The man on the barge recognized me; he was my boatswain’s mate for three years when I was serving on the China station. And, what’s more, he seems to know what I am doing. I shall have to bluff it out. I can’t stay here, and I can’t get back to my rooms in these wet clothes. I’ve got it! You cut across at once into Harbour Lane, and find George. Tell him to get his taxi out at once, because I want him to drive me as far as a place called Cray, in Kent. It’s only about fifteen miles, and I ought to be there in an hour easy. If Bill Avory–that’s the man on the barge–opens his mouth to the police, as he is pretty sure to, and if he really knows who I am, or what I am doing in this part of the world, they are certain to go round to my rooms to inquire. I told my landlady I was dining at Cray, and that I shouldn’t be back till late. So she’ll be all right. But don’t stand staring at me, get a move on. Tell George I will be waiting at the corner for him in ten minutes. Here, stop a minute, I must have some dry clothes. Any old clothes of George’s will do. Now, be off.”

Once alone, Gilmour sat there, not heeding the cold and damp, and conscious only of the struggle for freedom. Then, when his patience was getting exhausted, he heard the purr of an engine outside, and made his way into the street where the taxi was awaiting him. He paused for a moment as he entered.

“That’s all right, George,” he said. “You know where to go. And don’t worry about the speed limit. Get me to Cray as soon as you can, and drop me at the corner of the lane not far from the Moat House. I can change inside the cab, and you can do what you like with my wet clothes. Is the stuff inside?”

“That’s all right, sir,” the driver muttered.

In just under the hour the taxi reached Cray, and in his impromptu wardrobe, Gilmour got out and made his way through the lodge gates to the front of the house where he could see the lights blazing in the dining-room windows. A clock somewhere was striking ten.

As he stood there, he could hear the sounds of gaiety and laughter inside, then he crept forward, and very gently commenced to tap with his knuckles on one of the window panes, not quickly, but two or three taps with intervals between. Then it seemed to him that the conversation inside ceased, and he smiled to himself grimly.

III. A BROKEN LIFE

Not more than twenty years ago the village of Cray had been a sporting estate owned by the Langley family, of which Major Owen Langley had been the head at the beginning of the twentieth century. He had distinguished himself in the Boer War, from which he returned with every prospect of a successful career. But the unfortunate death of his wife in the hunting field had left him a comparatively young man with one little girl, and he had sent in his papers and devoted himself to the managing of his estate and the bringing up of his child, Patricia.

In those days, the brick and mortar octopus ever stretching out from the Metropolis in search of fresh land to devour had been checked in a south-easterly direction by the barrier of the Moat estate, and for some years this had been a sort of oasis in the dreary waste of jerry-building orgies. But eventually Major Owen Langley had found himself drawn into the vortex. His revenues were falling, and he was compelled to find fresh avenues for the upkeep of the family dignity. So he began mildly to speculate in building land, under the guidance of the last of the Veritys, who lived then in an old Manor House on the edge of the estate, and when Jasper Verity was no more, Mortimer Croot took his place and, under his guidance, Major Langley plunged still deeper.

And then, when Patricia was about seventeen, the crash came. It had come quite unexpectedly, like a bolt from the blue on that particular summer evening when Croot had walked over from the Manor House and had told Langley in plain words exactly where he stood. Patricia still remembered that evening, how she had sat in the drawing-room listening to voices in the library raised more and more in anger, until a door had banged somewhere, and then there was silence. She had heard her father pacing up and down the library, and then the sound of a heavy fall which struck a sort of chill to her heart. She seemed to feel the trouble in the air.

She found her father lying On the hearthrug, a mere fragment of humanity, the shell of a man, with the soul and sense dead within it. And so, from that day to this, Langley had remained. He had lost all power over his limbs, and most of the control over his speech. There were days when he could say certain things coherently, and when he could manage to drag himself from one chair to another. But these intervals were few and far between, and for the most part he passed his days in a sort of moody dream, though he seemed to recognize Patricia’s devotion and loving kindness.

But that was all, and then Patricia began to gather what had happened. They were absolutely ruined; there was nothing left of the property, and even Croot’s exertions had resulted only in saving a pittance of a hundred a year out of the wreck. And so it came about that the girl and her father found themselves eventually in a little cottage just by the lodge gates, and Croot and his adopted daughter became owner and tenant of the Moat House.

Patricia realized that it was absolutely imperative for her to do something, and she very bravely learnt typewriting and shorthand, and accepted Croot’s offer of employment in the dingy old offices in Great Bower Street. And there she had been diligently working for the last two years.

Meanwhile, the Cray estate was altered beyond recognition. Where fields and covers had been, large houses, surrounded by their own grounds, stood. Where the big orchard had been was now the prosperous and sinfully-expensive centre for the Cray shops and banks. Only the Moat House itself remained, with its charming grounds, and there Croot had been established for years.

He still took more than a passing interest in the unfortunate man who occupied one of his cottages more as a matter of charity than anything else. On Major Langley’s good days, Croot frequently looked in and did his best to cheer up the unhappy late owner of the Moat estate. But all to no purpose, for, strange to say, Langley seemed to have conceived a bitter dislike for the man whom most people regarded as his best friend. Not that Croot took this in bad part; he recognized the mental affliction that lay at the back of it all, and behaved accordingly. To Patricia herself, he was always the counsellor and guide. He paid her handsomely, far more handsomely than her services warranted, and she was not blind to the fact. Whatever her father might think in that dark mind of his, she was grateful enough.

She came home on the evening of Vera Croot’s birthday, and smilingly entered the little sitting-room where her father was seated. It was quite a small room, with a pleasant outlook over the Moat House grounds, and there Langley would sit day after day, looking out as if seeing nothing, with Heaven knows what queer thoughts mustered in the back of his diseased mind. He sat now in a big arm-chair before the old-fashioned fire-place, with a shaded lamp on the little table in the centre of the room. It was customary for one of the servants to come there from the Moat House on most evenings and look after the afflicted man’s comfort until such time as Pat came back from the City. Then she would get his evening meal, and afterwards play a sort of patience with him for an hour or two until one of the gardeners from the Moat House came along and helped to put the invalid to bed. Then, if Pat happened to be spending the evening out, the man in question would remain in the kitchen of the cottage until she returned.

“Well, dad,” she said cheerfully. “And what sort of a day have you had? Anybody been to see you?”

It happened to be one of Langley’s best days, therefore he looked up with a smile as Pat entered. He spoke slowly and painfully, but his words were clear enough, and she could follow them.

“Oh, much the same as usual,” he said. “The vicar came in this afternoon and, after he had gone, Lady Broadley appeared. I have not been at all lonely, my dear.”