“That is very good, considering it was taken in artificial light,” he said. It was an enlarged photograph of his laboratory door bearing the blue imprint, and so carefully had the photographer done his work, that every line and whorl of the fingertips showed.
“It is a woman’s hand, of course,” he said.
“A woman!” she gasped. “Are you sure?”
He looked up in surprise.
“Of course I’m sure,” said Digby; “look at the size of it! It is much too small for a man.”
So she had wronged Jim cruelly! And yet what was he doing there in the house? How had he got in? The whole thing was so inexplicable that she gave it up, only—she must tell Jim and ask him to forgive her.
As soon as she was free she went to the telephone. Jim was not in the office.
“Who is it speaking?” asked the voice of the clerk.
“Never mind,” said the girl hurriedly, and hung up the receiver.
All day long she was haunted by the thought of the injustice she had done the man she loved. He would send her a note, she thought, or would call her up, and at every ring of the telephone the blood came into her face, only to recede when she heard the answer, and discovered the caller was some person in whom she had no interest.
That day was one of the longest she had ever spent in her life. There was practically no work to do, and even the dubious entertainment of Digby was denied her. He went out in the morning and did not come back until late in the afternoon, going out again as soon as he had changed his clothes.
She ate her dinner in solitude and was comforted by the thought that she would soon be free from this employment. She had written to her old employer and he had answered by return of post, saying how glad he would be if he could get her back. Then they could have their little tea-parties all over again, she thought, and Jim, free of this obsession about Digby Groat, would be his old cheerful self.
The nurse was going out that evening and Mrs. Groat sent for her. She hated the girl, but she hated the thought of being alone much more.
“I want you to sit here with me until the nurse comes home,” she said. “You can take a book and read, but don’t fidget.”
Eunice smiled to herself and went in search of a book.
She came back in time to find Mrs. Groat hiding something beneath her pillow. They sat in silence for an hour, the old woman playing with her hands on her lap, her head sunk forward, deep in thought, the girl trying to read, and finding it very difficult. Jim’s face so constantly came between her and the printed page, that she would have been glad for an excuse to put down the book, glad for any diversion.
It was Mrs. Groat who provided her with an escape from her ennui.
“Where did you get that scar on your wrist?” she asked, looking up.
“I don’t know,” said Eunice. “I have had it ever since I was a baby. I think I must have been burnt.”
There was another long silence.
“Where were you born?”
“In South Africa,” said the girl.
Again there was an interval, broken only by the creak of Mrs. Groat’s chair.
In sheer desperation, for the situation was getting on her nerves, Eunice said: “I found an old miniature of yours the other day, Mrs. Groat.”
The woman fixed her with her dark eyes.
“Of me?” she said, and then, “Oh, yes, I remember. Well? Did you think it looks like me?” she asked sourly.
“I think it was probably like you years ago. I could trace a resemblance,” said Eunice diplomatically.
The answer seemed to amuse Jane Groat. She had a mordant sense of humour, the girl was to discover.
“Like me when I was like that, eh?” she said. “Do you think I was pretty?”
Here Eunice could speak whole-heartedly and without evasion.
“I think you were very beautiful,” she said warmly.
“I was, too,” said the woman, speaking half to herself. “My father tried to bury me in a dead-and-alive village. He thought I was too attractive for town. A wicked, heartless brute of a man,” she said, and the girl was somewhat shocked.
Apparently the old doctrine of filial piety did not run in Jane Groat’s family.
“When I was a girl,” the old woman went on, “the head of the family was the family tyrant, and lived for the exercise of his power. My father hated me from the moment I was born and I hated him from the moment I began to think.”
Eunice said nothing. She had not invited the confidence, nevertheless it fascinated her to hear this woman draw aside the veil which hid the past. What great tragedy had happened, she speculated, that had turned the beautiful original of the miniature into this hard and evil-looking woman?
“Men would run after me, Miss Weldon,” she said with a curious complacence. “Men whose names are famous throughout the world.”
The girl remembered the Marquis of Estremeda and wondered whether her generosity to him was due to the part he had played as pursuing lover.
“There was one man who loved me,” said the old woman reflectively, “but he didn’t love me well enough. He must have heard something, I suppose, because he was going to marry me and then he broke it off and married a simpering fool of a girl from Malaga.”
She chuckled to herself. She had had no intention of discussing her private affairs with Eunice Weldon, but something had started her on a train of reminiscence. Besides, she regarded Eunice already as an unofficial member of the family. Digby would tell her sooner or later. She might as well know from her, she thought.
“He was a Marquis,” she went on, “a hard man, too, and he treated me badly. My father never forgave me after I came back, and never spoke another word in his life, although he lived for nearly twenty years.”
After she had come back, thought Eunice. Then she had gone away with this Marquis? The Marquis of Estremeda. And then he had deserted her, and had married this “simpering fool” from Malaga. Gradually the story was revealing itself before her eyes.
“What happened to the girl?” she asked gently. She was almost afraid to speak unless she stopped the loquacious woman.
“She died,” said Mrs. Groat with a thin smile. “He said I killed her. I only told her the truth. Besides, I owed him something,” she frowned. “I wish I hadn’t,” she muttered, “I wish I hadn’t. Sometimes the ghost of her comes into this room and looks down at me with her deep black eyes and tells me that I killed her!” She mumbled something, and again with that note of complacency in her voice:
“When she heard that my child was the son—” she stopped quickly and looked round. “What am I talking about?” she said gruffly.
Eunice held her breath. Now she knew the secret of this strange household! Jim had told her something about it; told her of the little shipping clerk who had married Mrs. Groat, and for whom she had so profound a contempt. A shipping clerk from the old man’s office, whom he had paid to marry the girl that her shame should be hidden.
Digby Groat was actually the son of—the Marquis of Estremeda! In law he was not even the heir to the Danton millions!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EUNICE could only stare at the old woman. “Get on with your book,” grumbled Mrs. Groat pettishly, and the girl, looking up through her lashes, saw the suspicious eyes fixed on her and the tremulous mouth moving as though she were speaking.
She must tell Jim. Despite her sense of loyalty, she realized that this was imperative. Jim was vitally interested in the disposal of the Danton estate, and he must know.
Suddenly the old woman began speaking again.
“What did I tell you just now?” she asked.
“You were talking about your youth,” said the girl.
“Did I say anything about—a man?” asked the old woman suspiciously. She had forgotten! Eunice forced the lie to her lips.
“No,” she replied, so loudly that anybody but this muddled woman would have known she was not speaking the truth.
“Be ca
reful of my son,” said Mrs. Groat after a while. “Don’t cross him. He’s not a bad lad, not a bad lad “—she shook her head and glanced slyly at the girl. “He is like his father in many ways.”
“Mr. Groat?” said Eunice, and felt inexpressively mean at taking advantage of the woman’s infirmity, but she steeled her heart with the thought that Jim must benefit by her knowledge.
“Groat,” sneered, the old woman contemptuously, “that worm. No—yes, of course he was Groat. Who else could he be; who else?” she asked, her voice rising wrathfully.
There was a sound outside and she turned her head and listened.
“You won’t leave me alone. Miss Weldon, until the nurse comes back, will you?” she whispered with pathetic eagerness. “You promise me that?”
“Why, of course I promise you,” said Eunice, smiling; “that is why I am here, to keep you company.”
The door handle turned and the old woman watched it, fascinated. Eunice heard her audible gasp as Digby came in. He was in evening dress and smoking a cigarette through a long holder.
He seemed for the moment taken aback by the sight of Eunice and then smiled.
“Of course, it is the nurse’s night out, isn’t it? How are you feeling tonight, mother?”
“Very well, my boy,” she quavered, “very well indeed. Miss Weldon is keeping me company.”
“Splendid,” said Digby. “I hope Miss Weldon hasn’t been making your flesh creep.”
“Oh, no,” said the girl, shocked, “of course I haven’t. How could I?”
“I was wondering whether you had been telling mother of our mysterious visitor,” he laughed as he pulled up an easy chair and sat down. “You don’t mind my smoke, mother, do you?”
Eunice thought that even if old Jane Groat had objected it would not have made the slightest difference to her son, but the old woman shook her head and again turned her pleading eyes on Eunice.
“I should like to catch that lady,” said Digby, watching a curl of smoke rise to the ceiling.
“What lady, my boy?” asked Mrs. Groat.
“The lady who has been wandering loose round this house at night, leaving her mark upon the panels of my door.”
“A burglar,” said the old woman, and did not seem greatly alarmed.
Digby shook his head.
“A woman and a criminal, I understand. She left a clear finger-print, and Scotland Yard have had the photograph and have identified it with that of a woman who served a sentence in Holloway Gaol.”
A slight noise attracted Eunice and she turned to look at Jane Groat.
She was sitting bolt upright, her black eyes staring, her face working convulsively.
“What woman?” she asked harshly. “What are you talking about?’”
Digby seemed as much surprised as the girl to discover the effect the statement had made upon his mother.
“The woman who has been getting into this house and making herself a confounded nuisance with her melodramatic signature.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Groat with painful slowness.
“She has left the mark of a Blue Hand on my door—”
Before he could finish the sentence his mother was on her feet, staring down at him with terror in her eyes.
“A Blue Hand!” she cried wildly. “What was that woman’s name?”
“According to the police report, Madge Benson,” said Digby.
For a second she glared at him wildly.
“Blue Hand,” she mumbled, and would have collapsed but for the fact that Eunice had recognized the symptoms and was by her side and took her in her strong young arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
OUTSIDE the door in the darkened passage a man was listening intently. He had trailed Digby Groat all that evening, and had followed him into the house. Hearing a movement of footsteps within, he slipped into a side passage and waited. Eunice flew past the entrance to the passage and Jim Steele thought it was time that he made a move. In a few minutes the house would be aroused, for he guessed that the old woman had collapsed. It was a desperate, mad enterprise of his, to enter the great household at so early an hour, but he had a particular reason for wishing to discover the contents of a letter which he had seen slipped into Digby’s hand that night.
Jim had been following him without success until Digby Groat had alighted at Piccadilly Circus apparently to buy a newspaper. Then a stranger had edged close to him and Jim had seen the quick passage of the white envelope. He meant to see that letter.
He reached the ground floor in safety and hesitated. Should he go into the laboratory whither Digby was certain to come, or should he—? A hurried footstep on the stairs above decided him: he slipped through the door leading to Digby’s study. Hiding-place there was none: he had observed the room when he had been in there a few days previously. He was safe so long as nobody came in and turned on the lights. Jim heard the footsteps pass the door, and pulled his soft felt hat further over his eyes. The lower part of his face he had already concealed with a black silk handkerchief, and if the worst came to the worst, he could battle his way out and seek safety in flight. Nobody would recognize him in the old grey suit he wore, and the soft collarless shirt. It would not be a very noble end to the adventure, but it would be less ignominious than being exposed again to the scorn of Eunice.
Suddenly his heart beat faster. Somebody was coming into the library. He saw the unknown open the door and he crouched down so that the big library table covered him from observation. Instantly the room was flooded with light; Jim could only see the legs of the intruder, and they were the legs of Digby Groat. Digby moved to the table, and Jim heard the tear of paper as an envelope was slit, and then an exclamation of anger from the man.
“Mr. Groat, please come quickly!”
It was the voice of Eunice calling from the floor above, and Digby hurried out, leaving the door open. He was scarcely out of sight before Jim had risen; his first glance was at the table. The letter lay as Digby had thrown it down, and he thrust it into his pocket. In a second he was through the doorway and in the passage. Jackson was standing by the foot of the stairs looking up, and for the moment he did not see Jim; then, at the sight of the masked face, he opened his mouth to shout a warning, and at that instant Jim struck at him twice, and the man went down with a crash.
“What is that?” said Digby’s voice, but Jim was out of the house, the door slammed behind him, and was racing along the sidewalk toward Berkeley Square, before Digby Groat knew what had happened. He slackened his pace, turned sharp to the right, so that he came back on his track, and stopped under a street light to read the letter.
Parts of its contents contained no information for him. But there was one line which interested him:
“Steele is trailing you: we will fix him tonight.”
He read the line again and smiled as he walked on at a more leisurely pace.
Once or twice he thought he was being followed, and turned round, but saw nobody. As he strolled up Portland Place, deserted at this hour of the night save for an occasional car, his suspicion that he was being followed was strengthened. Two men, walking one behind the other, and keeping close to the railings, were about twenty yards behind him.
“I’ll give you a run for your money, my lads,” muttered Jim, and crossing Marylebone Road, he reached the loneliest part of London, the outer circle of Regent’s Park. And then he began to run: and Jim had taken both the sprint and the two-mile at the ‘Varsity sports. He heard swift feet following and grinned to himself. Then came the noise of a taxi door shutting. They had picked up the “crawler” he had passed.
“That is very unsporting,” said Jim, and turning, ran in the opposite direction. He went past the cab like a flash, and heard it stop and a loud voice order the taxi to turn, and he slackened his pace. He had already decided upon his plan of action—one so beautifully simple and so embarrassing to Digby Groat and his servitors, if his suspicions were confirmed, that it was worth the bluff. He ha
d dropped to a walk at the sight of a policeman coming toward him. As the taxi came abreast he stepped into the roadway, gripped the handle of the door and jerked it open.
“Come out,” he said sternly.
In the reflected light from the taximeter lantern he saw the damaged face of an old friend.
“Come out, Jackson, and explain just why you’re following me through the peaceful streets of this great city.”
The man was loath to obey, but Jim gripped him by the waistcoat and dragged him out, to the taxi-driver’s astonishment. The second man was obviously a foreigner, a little dark, thin-faced man with a mahogany face, and they stood sheepishly regarding their quarry.
“Tomorrow you can go back to Mr. Digby Groat and tell him that the next time he sets the members of the Thirteen Gang to trail me, I’ll come after him with enough evidence in each hand to leave him swinging in the brick-lined pit at Wandsworth. Do you understand that?”
“I don’t know what you mean about tomorrow,” said the innocent Jackson in an aggrieved tone. “We could have the law on you for dragging us out of the cab.”
“Try it, here comes a policeman,” said Jim. He gripped him by the collar and dragged him toward the interested constable. “I think this man wants to make a charge against me.”
“No, I don’t,” growled Jackson, terrified as to what his master would say when he heard of this undramatic end to the trailing of Jim.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THERE is little that is romantic about a Police Station, and Digby Groat, who came in a towering rage to release his servants, was so furious that he could not even see the humorous side of the situation.
Once outside the building he dismissed one, Antonio Fuentes, with a curse, and poured the vials of wrath upon the unhappy Jackson.
“You fool, you blundering dolt,” he stormed. “I told you to keep the man in sight; Bronson would have carried out my orders without Steele knowing. Why the hell did you carry a revolver?”
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