The Four Faces
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William le Queux >> The Four Faces
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"No, not exactly a row," I said, staring into his nice frank face.
"Then why do you talk about not becoming my brother-in-law? If you don't
marry Dulcie you'll jolly nearly kill her. You don't know how fearfully
fond of you she is. You can't know, or you wouldn't talk about not
marrying her."
"I haven't talked about not marrying her," I answered hurriedly. "Tell
me, Dick, is that true--what you say about her being so awfully fond
of me?"
"I shouldn't say it if it wasn't true," he said with a touch of pride.
"But what did you mean when you said you wondered if you could treat me
as if I were a man?"
I put my arm round the lad, as he stood at the table, and drew him close
to me.
"Dick, old boy," I said with a catch in my voice, "I am very unhappy,
and I believe Dulcie is too, and I believe it is possible you may be
able to put things right if you set about it in the right way. But
first, tell me--you have talked to Mrs. Stapleton; do you like her?"
"I have never liked her from the first time she talked to me," he
answered without an instant's hesitation. "And I don't like her any the
better since I have heard you and Mr. Osborne talking about her, and
since I spotted her in that advertisement yesterday."
"Well, Dick," I went on, "Mrs. Stapleton and Dulcie are now tremendous
friends, and I believe that Mrs. Stapleton is trying to make Dulcie
dislike me; I believe she says things about me to Dulcie that are
untrue, and I think that Dulcie believes some of the things she
is told."
"What a beastly shame! But, oh no, Mike, Dulcie wouldn't believe
anything about you that was nasty--my word, I'd like to see anyone say
nasty things to her about you!"
"I am glad you think that, but still--anyway, certain things have
happened which I can't explain to you, and I am pretty sure Dulcie likes
me less than she did. I want you to try to find that out, and to tell
me. Will you try to if I can manage to get you a week-end at Holt?"
"Will I? You try me, Mike. And I won't only try to find out--I shall
find out."
It was six o'clock when I arrived back at Eton with Dick. Word was sent
to me that the headmaster would like to speak to me before I left. He
came into the room a few minutes afterwards, told Dick to go away and
return in ten minutes, then shut the door and came over to me. He looked
extremely grave.
"Half an hour ago I received this telegram," he said, pulling one out of
his pocket and handing it to me. "As I know you to be an intimate friend
of Sir Roland's, you may like to read it before I say anything to Dick."
I unfolded the telegram. It had been handed in at Newbury at five
o'clock, and ran:
"My daughter suddenly taken seriously ill. Dick must return at once. My
butler will await him under the clock on Paddington departure platform
at 7:15, and bring him down here. Please see that Dick is under clock at
7:15 this evening without fail.--CHALLONER."
I read the telegram twice, and even then I seemed unable to grasp its
full significance. Dulcie seriously ill! Good God, what had happened to
her--when we had parted on Paddington platform only a few hours before
she had appeared to be in perfect health. Had this sudden attack,
whatever it might be, any connection with Mrs. Stapleton, or with that
hateful affair that I had witnessed the night before--my darling Dulcie
gambling recklessly and losing, and then borrowing--from a woman I now
fully believed to be an adventuress--money to go on gambling with? Was
it even possible that, beside herself with dismay at the large amount of
money she now owed Mrs. Stapleton, she had in a sudden moment of madness
attempted to take--
I almost cried out as I banished from my brain the hideous thought. Oh,
God, anything rather than that! I must get further news, and without a
moment's loss of time. I must telegraph or telephone to Holt.
The headmaster's calm voice recalled me to my senses.
"It is indeed terrible news," he said sympathetically, struck, no doubt,
at the grief which the news had stamped upon my face. "But it may, after
all, be less serious than Sir Roland thinks. I was about to suggest, Mr.
Berrington," he went on, pulling out his watch, "that as you are, I take
it, returning to London by the 6:25, you might take Dick up with you and
place him in charge of Sir Roland's butler who will be awaiting him at a
quarter past seven under the clock on Paddington platform. If you can be
so very kind as to do this it will obviate the necessity of my sending
someone to London with him. I have given an order for such things as he
way require to be packed, and they should be ready by now. We must
break the news very gently to the boy, for I know that he is devoted to
his sister, so for the boy's sake, Mr. Berrington, try to bear up. I
know, of course, the reason of your deep grief, for Dick has told me
that you are engaged to be married to his sister."
Hardly knowing what I said, I agreed to do as he suggested, and see Dick
safely to Paddington. How we broke the news to him, and how he received
it when we did break it, I hardly recollect. All I remember distinctly
is standing in a telephone call office in Eton town, and endeavouring to
get through to Holt Manor. Not until it was nearly time for the London
train from Windsor to start, did the telephone exchange inform me they
had just ascertained that the line to Holt Manor was out of order, and
that they could not get through.
Anathematizing the telephone and all that had to do with it, I hurried
out to the taxi in which Dick sat awaiting me.
All the way from Windsor to London we exchanged hardly a word. Dick, I
knew, was terribly upset at the news, for his devotion to his sister was
as well known to me as it was to his father and to Aunt Hannah. But he
was a plucky little chap, and tried hard not to show how deeply the news
had affected him. For my part my brain was in a tumult. To think that I
should have parted from her that morning with feelings of resentment in
my heart, and that now she lay possibly at death's door. Again and again
I cursed myself for my irritability, my suspicions. Were they, after
all, unjust suspicions? Might Dulcie not have excellent reasons to give
for all that had occurred the night before? Might she not have been
duped, and taken to that house under wholly false pretences? An uncle of
hers believed to be dead, a brother of Sir Roland's, had, I knew, been
a confirmed gambler. There was much in heredity, I reflected, in spite
of modern theories to the contrary. Was it not within the bounds of
possibility that Dulcie, taken to that gambling den by her infamous
companion, and encouraged by her to play, might suddenly have felt
within her the irresistible craving that no man or woman born a gambler
has yet been able to overcome? And in any case, what right had I had
metaphorically to sit in judgment upon her and jump to conclusions which
might be wholly erroneous?
The train travelled at express speed through Slough, Didcot, and other
small stations. It was within a mile of London, when my thoughts
suddenly drifted. Why had Sir Roland not sent James direct to Windsor to
meet Dick, instead of wasting time by sending him all the way to London?
But perhaps James had been in town that day--he came up sometimes--and
Sir Roland had wired to him there. Again, why had he not sent the car to
Eton to fetch Dick away? That would have been the quicker plan; ah, of
course he would have done that had it been possible, but probably the
car had been sent into Newbury to fetch the doctor. That, indeed, was
probably what had happened, for the telegram had been handed it at
Newbury instead of at Holt Stacey. I knew that Sir Roland's chauffeur
had a poor memory--it was well known to be his chief fault; probably he
had shot through Holt Stacey, forgetting all about the telegram he had
been told to send off there, and, upon his arrival in Newbury,
remembered it and at once despatched it. Sir Roland had, I knew, a
rooted dislike to telephoning telegraphic messages direct to the post
office, and I had never yet known him dictate a telegram through his
telephone. Oh, how provoking, I said again, mentally, as I thought of
the telephone, that the instrument should have got out of order on this
day of all days--the one day when I had wanted so urgently to use it!
Now the train was slowing down. It was rattling over the points as it
passed into the station. Looking out of the window I could see the clock
on the departure platform. A few people were strolling near it, but
nobody was under it--at least no man. I could see a woman standing under
it, apparently a young woman.
Dick's luggage consisted of a suit-case which we had taken into the
carriage with us, and this I now carried for him as we descended into
the sub-way. The clock on the departure platform is only a few yards
from the exit of the sub-way, and, as we came out, the woman under the
clock was not looking in our direction. Somehow her profile seemed
familiar, and--
I stopped abruptly, and, catching Dick by the arm, pulled him quickly
behind a pile of luggage on a truck. An amazing thought had flashed into
my brain. As quickly as I could I gathered my scattered wits:
"Dick," I said after a few moments' reflection, trying to keep my brain
cool, "I believe--I have an idea all isn't right. There is no sign of
James, though our train was some minutes late and it is now twenty past
seven--James was to be here at a quarter past, according to that
telegram. But that woman waiting there--I know her by sight though I
have never spoken to her. She might remember me by sight, so I don't
want her to see me. Now look here, I want you to do this. Take hold of
your suit-case, and, as soon as that woman's back is turned, walk up and
stand under the clock, near her, as though you were awaiting someone.
Don't look at her or speak to her. I believe this is some trick. I don't
believe that telegram was sent by your father at all. I don't believe
Dulcie is ill. I think that woman is waiting for you, and that when you
have been there a few moments she will speak to you--probably ask you if
you are Master Challoner, and then tell you that she has been sent
instead of James to meet you, and ask you to go with her. If she does
that, don't look in the least surprised, answer her quite naturally--you
can inquire, if you like, how Dulcie is, though I shall not be a bit
surprised if we find her at home perfectly well--and if she asks you to
go with her, go. Don't be at all frightened, old chap; I shall follow,
and be near you all the time, whatever happens. And look here, if I have
guessed aright, and she does say that she has been asked to meet you and
tells you to come along with her, just put your hand behind you for an
instant, as you are walking away, and then I shall know."
"Oh, Mike, if Dulcie isn't ill, if after all nothing has happened to
her--"
His feelings overcame him, and he could not say more.
I moved a little to one side of the pile of trunks, and peered out.
"Now, Dick--now!" I exclaimed, as I saw the woman turn her back to us.
Dick marched up to her, carrying his suit-case, and waited under the
clock, just as I had told him to. He had not been there ten seconds when
I saw the woman step up to him and speak to him.
They exchanged one or two remarks, then, turning, walked away together.
And, as they walked, Dick's hand went up his back and he scratched an
imaginary flea.
Instantly I began to walk slowly after them. Dick was being taken away
by the dark, demure, quietly-dressed little woman I had seen at Connie
Stapleton's dinner party, and, only the night before, standing among the
onlookers in Gastrell's house in Cumberland Place.
CHAPTER XVII
IS SUSPICIOUS
They walked leisurely along the platform, Dick still carrying his
suit-case, and at the end of it passed down the sloping sub-way which
leads to the Metropolitan Railway. For a moment they were out of sight,
but directly I turned the corner I saw them again; they walked slower
now, Dick evidently finding his burden rather heavy. At the pigeon-hole
of the booking-office a queue of a dozen or so were waiting to buy
tickets. The woman and Dick did not stop, however. I saw them pass by
the queue, and then I saw the woman hold out tickets to the collector to
be clipped, and as I took my place at the back end of the queue she and
Dick passed on to the Praed Street platform.
To what station should I book? I had no idea where they were going, so
decided to go to High Street, Kensington, and pay the difference if I
had to follow them further. There were still six people in front of me,
when I heard the train coming in.
"Hurry up in front!" I called out in a fever of excitement, dreading
that I might not get a ticket in time.
"All right, my man--don't shove!" the man immediately before me
exclaimed angrily, pushing back against me. "This ain't the only train,
you know; if you miss this you can catch the next!"
I believe he deliberately took a long time getting out his money.
Anyway, before I had bought my ticket the train had started. A moment
later I stood upon the platform, watching, in a frenzy of despair, the
red tail-light of the train containing Dick and the strange woman
disappearing into the tunnel.
I felt literally beside myself. What in the world had I done! I had
deliberately let the strange woman take Dick away with her, without
having the remotest idea where she was going or why she had, to all
intents, abducted the boy. It was awful to think of--and I alone was
entirely to blame! Then the thought came back to me that I had told Dick
to have no fear, assuring him that I would be near him all the time.
What would the headmaster say who had confided him to my care? Worse,
what would Sir Roland say when I confessed to him what I had done?
These and other maddening thoughts were crowding into my brain as I
stood upon the platform, dazed, and completely at a loss what to do,
when somebody nudged me. Turning, I recognized at once the man in the
snuff-coloured suit who had told me so rudely "not to shove," and had
then dawdled so while buying his railway ticket. I was about to say
something not very complimentary to him, when he spoke.
"I trust you will forgive my apparent rudeness a moment ago at the
booking-office," he said in a voice I knew quite well, "but there's a
method in my madness. I am Preston--George Preston."
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, the sudden revulsion of feeling almost
overpowering me. "But do you know what has happened--do you know that
Sir Roland Challoner's son I had charge of has--"
"Don't distress yourself, Mr. Berrington," he interrupted reassuringly,
"I know everything, and more than you know, but I rather feared that
you might see through this disguise. I have been loafing about
Paddington station for nearly an hour. The lady I expected to see
arrived just after seven, and took up her position under the clock. Then
I saw you and the lad arrive; I saw you recognize the woman; I saw you
put yourself out of sight behind the pile of trunks, and talk earnestly
to the lad for a few moments, and I guessed what you were saying to him.
I walked right past you in the sub-way, and intentionally made you miss
this train, because it is inexpedient that you should follow those two.
I know where they are going, and Mr. Osborne knows too; I needn't
trouble to explain to you here how I come to know all this. The thing
you have to do now is to come with me to my house off Regent Street,
where Mr. Osborne awaits us."
Never in my life, I suppose, have I felt so relieved as I did then, for
the mental pain I had endured during these few minutes had been torture.
Indeed, I felt almost indignant with Preston for his having made me
suffer so; but he explained that he had revealed himself to me the
moment he felt justified in doing so. Suddenly a thought occurred to me.
"Do you know," I asked him quickly, "anything of a telegram sent to Eton
this morning, apparently by Sir Roland, saying that Miss Challoner had
been taken suddenly ill, and requesting that his son might be sent home
to Holt at once?"
"Yes, I know, because--I sent it."
"_You_ sent it!"
"Yes--though I didn't write it. Mrs. Stapleton wrote it. She gave it to
her chauffeur, who was in the hall at the Rook Hotel, and when she was
gone he asked me if I would mind handing it in, as I had intentionally
told him I was going to the post office. I was a chauffeur, too, at the
time, chauffeur to 'Baron Poppenheimer,' whom I drove down this morning
in his car ostensibly to see the beautiful widow. 'Baron Poppenheimer'
was, of course, Mr. Osborne. The widow was not at 'The Book' when we
arrived--we knew she wouldn't be, and, of course, you know where she
was, she was at the house in Hampstead where you found Miss Challoner
when you called there this morning; she arrived home about two o'clock,
however, and while 'Baron Poppenheimer' was making himself agreeable to
her--your friend Mr. Osborne is a most splendid actor, and ought to have
been in the detective force--I was making headway with her chauffeur out
in the garage. Yes, Mr. Berrington, you can set your mind at rest--Miss
Challoner is perfectly well. I wonder if by chance you telephoned to
Holt this afternoon."
"I tried to."
"And you couldn't get through? The line was out of order?"
"Yes."
"Good!" Preston exclaimed, his small, intelligent eyes twinkling oddly.
"That is as I thought. One of Gastrell's accomplices set the line out of
order between three and five this afternoon. When the line comes to be
examined the electrician will, unless I am greatly mistaken, find the
flaw at some point between Holt Stacey and Holt Manor--if you should
happen to hear, you might tell me the exact point where they find that
the trouble exists. My theories and my chain of circumstances are
working out splendidly--I haven't as yet made a single false conjecture.
And now come along to my house, and I'll tell you more on the way."
Osborne sat in Preston's sitting-room, smoking a long cigar. He no
longer wore the disguise of "Baron Poppenheimer," or any disguise, and
upon our entry he uttered an exclamation.
"By Jove, Mike," he said, "you are the very man we've been wanting all
day. Where did you disappear to last night?" And turning to Preston he
added, "Were you right? Did he follow the widow and Miss Challoner home
last night?"
"Yes," I answered for him, "I did. Did you see Dulcie at Gastrell's last
night?"
"I should say so--and we saw you gazing at her. You nearly gave yourself
away, Mike; you did, indeed. You ought to be more careful. When we saw
you follow them out of the room, we knew, just as though you had told
us, that you meant to follow them home. And what about the boy?" he
said, addressing Preston. "Did he turn up? And was he met?"
"Yes, just as I expected; but he wasn't met by Sir Roland's butler, of
course. He was met by Doris Lorrimer--you have probably noticed her,
that dark, demure, quietly dressed girl who was at Connie Stapleton's
dinner party at 'The Rook,' and at Gastrell's last night."
"You don't mean to say that she, too, is one of Gastrell's accomplices!"
Jack exclaimed. "It seems impossible--looking like that!"
"I have suspected it for some time. Now I am sure. She has taken Dick
Challoner to Connie Stapleton's house in Hampstead. It's one of the
headquarters of the set, though, of course, the principal headquarters
are at 300 Cumberland Place. How furious Lord Easterton would be if he
knew! He suspects nothing as yet, I think."
"But how do you know that Doris Lorrimer has taken the boy to that
Hampstead house?" Osborne asked quickly; "and why has she taken him?"
"The gang have kidnapped him--it was Connie Stapleton's idea--in order
to get the reward they feel sure Sir Roland will offer for his recovery.
How I know where Doris Lorrimer has taken him is that Connie Stapleton's
chauffeur, with whom I fraternized this afternoon in Newbury, happened
to mention that his mistress had told Miss Lorrimer to be under the
clock at Paddington at seven-fifteen this evening to meet the man with
the parcel,' as she said, and then to take the 'parcel' to her house in
Hampstead! I won't tell you until later how I come to know the
kidnapping was Mrs. Stapleton's idea; I have a reason for not telling
you--yet."
"You certainly are a marvel, George," Jack said, as he blew a cloud
towards the ceiling. "We seem to be well on the way now to running
these scoundrels to ground. I shall be glad to see them
convicted--right glad."
"We are 'on the way'--yes," Preston answered, "but you'll find it a
longer 'way' than you expect, if you are already thinking of
convictions. You don't know--you can't have any idea of--the slimness of
these rogues if you suppose we are as yet anywhere near running them to
ground. Just look how clever they have already been: first there is the
fire in Maresfield Gardens and the discovery of the stabbed and charred
body, for you may depend upon it that fire was meant to conceal some
crime, probably murder, by destroying all traces, including that body
which ought by rights to have been entirely consumed; then there is the
robbery at Holt Manor; then the affair in Grafton Street, with yourself
as the victim; then the murder of Sir Roland's gardener, Churchill--all
these constitute mysteries, undiscovered crimes, and now comes this
business of kidnapping Sir Roland's young son."
We talked at considerable length, discussing past and present
happenings, and arranging our future line of action. Preston was
immensely interested in the cypher messages unravelled by Dick--I had
brought the cuttings with me to show to him and Jack. The reference to
the date of the coming of age of Cranmere's son, considered in
connection with the questions about Cranmere's seat, Eldon Hall, put to
Osborne during his mysterious confinement in Grafton Street, made the
detective almost excited. The unravelling of those cyphers was, he said,
perhaps the most important discovery as yet made. Indeed, he believed
that our knowledge of these messages might simplify matters Sufficiently
to lead directly to the arrest of at any rate some members of the gang
at a much earlier date than he had previously anticipated.
"It is clear," he said, as he put the cuttings into the envelope again
and handed them back to me, "that Gastrell and company contemplate a
coup of some sort either on the day Lord Cranmere's son comes of age, or
on one day during the week of festivities that will follow. 'Clun
Cross.' We must find out where Clun Cross is; probably it's somewhere in
Northumberland, and most likely it's near Eldon Hall. I suppose,
Osborne, that you are invited to the coming of age, as you know
Cranmere so well?"
"Yes, and I mean to go. But Berrington isn't invited; he doesn't know
Cranmere."
"He probably knows what he looks like, though," Preston answered,
laughing--he was thinking of his impersonation of the Earl, and his
wonderful make-up. "I am not invited either, professionally or
otherwise, so that Mr. Berrington and I had better go to Bedlington and
put our heads together there, for something is going to happen at Eldon
Hall, Osborne, you may take my word for that. We mustn't, however,
forget that last cypher message: 'Osborne and Berrington suspect; take
precautions.' 'Precautions' with such people may mean anything. I am
firmly of opinion that poor Churchill's assassination was a
'precautionary' measure. It was on the afternoon before that murder,
remember, that Churchill found the paste buckle at the spot where a grey
car had been seen, left deserted, on the morning of the robbery at Holt.
It was on the afternoon before that murder that he brought the buckle to
Miss Challoner, told her about the grey car he had seen, which, he said,
led him to suspect something, and asked to have the afternoon off. It
was on that same afternoon that Mrs. Stapleton happened to motor over to
Holt, and while there was told by Miss Challoner all about the finding
of the buckle, also all about Churchill's secret suspicion about the
car, and his asking to have the afternoon off, presumably to pursue his
inquiries. And what happened after that? Don't you remember? Mrs.
Stapleton telephoned from Holt to the Book Hotel in Newbury and talked
to someone there--her maid, so she said--for five minutes or more,
talked to her in Polish. Now, does anything suggest itself to either of
you? Don't you think it quite likely that Mrs. Stapleton, hearing from
Miss Challoner all about what had happened, telephoned in Polish certain
instructions to somebody in Newbury, most likely one of her accomplices,
and that those instructions led, directly or indirectly, to Churchill's
being murdered the same night, lest he should discover anything and give
information? One thing I am sure of, though--Mrs. Stapleton's
chauffeur is an honest man who does not in the least suspect what is
going on; who, on the contrary, believes his mistress to be a most
estimable woman, kind, considerate, open-handed. I found that out while
associating with him to-day as a fellow-chauffeur."
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