Drayton made another of those darting passes in the air.
“You will be the bearer of an ultimatum. You will not mention any names. You will tell him that, in continuation of the correspondence under dates of
December 15th and 21st, and January 2nd and 7th—Write those dates down!”
Lindsay fumbled ineffectively in his pocket.
“I haven’t anything to write on.” He wondered if Drayton would open one of the drawers of that secretive table to supply him with writing materials.
Drayton did nothing of the sort. He took from his own pocket a half sheet of note-paper and a pencil and pushed them over.
Lindsay wondered whether all the drawers of the table were locked. He wrote down December 15th and 21st, and January 2nd and 7th. Then he read out what he had written.
Drayton nodded.
“You will say that there is to be no further correspondence. He is to begin within the next fortnight to make cuts in the wages of all grades of employees, and he is to be prepared to make further cuts in the case of the first cut being accepted without a strike. Strike conditions are to be induced not later than the first week in February. It is to be understood that the Government’s disarmament policy is responsible for the cuts. Will you repeat that.”
Lindsay repeated it. He instilled a measure of bewilderment into his voice. What he was actually feeling was a burning flame of triumph. Here was something beyond his most ambitious hopes, not stumbled on, not pieced together, but given whole into his hand. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.” The Latin slid into his mind and out again. Drayton’s gifts were very decidedly to be feared. He was to be used as a blackmailer. Elsie Manning’s report of what she had overheard was corroborated. But what was Drayton’s security for using him? He had these thoughts clear in his mind whilst he repeated Drayton’s instructions.
“Yes,” said Drayton—“that’s it. Do you hear? That’s it—and you won’t put anything to it.”
Lindsay jerked a shoulder as he had seen Froth do at school when he was being baited.
“Are these Restow’s orders?”
Drayton cast his pen down upon the blotting-paper. The nib went into the clean white folds; the holder stood up quivering.
Lindsay jerked again.
“I’d like to have my orders from Restow direct.” He caught the look in Drayton’s eyes and stopped.
“You’ll take your orders from me,” said Drayton in the softest tone that Lindsay had heard from him. The softness was by several shades more unpleasant than his usual harsh voice.
“Well, I don’t know—”
“Must I remind you of my authority?” said Drayton, still very softly.
Lindsay felt so anxious to be reminded that he ventured a sulky, “I don’t know about authority.”
“I still hold that cheque—” said Drayton. He paused. “I have only to send it to the right quarter—” He paused again. “I think you would get seven years—” A third pause, longer than before, during which the dull lizard eyes slowly brightened into malignity. “Of course it is possible that you might get off with five—but even five years is a slice, a distinct slice out of a young man’s life.”
Lindsay made use of Mr Drayton’s impressive pauses to adjust himself to the shock. One may dislike a cousin very much without being prepared to hear that he has committed forgery. No one cares about having even a second cousin in the dock. Family pride kicked. He felt an elementary desire to hit Drayton good and hard—the blackmailing swine! Froth, unfortunately, was not in a position to hit Drayton. Lindsay, as Froth, made a nervous movement and muttered,
“For heaven’s sake—”
“What about taking my orders?”
“Yes—yes—of course. But I say—”
“Yes?”
“Suppose he just tells me to go to blazes?”
Drayton slowly withdrew the still upright pen.
“I hardly think he will do that—but he may, of course, put up a bluff.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“In that case you will inform him that a copy taken from the register of St Mary’s, Coldingham, under date of May 8th 1903 will be forwarded, with all other pertinent evidence, to the office of the Public Prosecutor.”
“What is it?” said Lindsay. “Bigamy?”
“You can leave that to Sir John,” said Drayton gently. He leaned back in his stiff chair. “You can add that, in case of his—shall we say—sudden decease, the same information will be sent to Lady Gladisloe and to the Press.”
“Swine!” said Lindsay to himself. Aloud he achieved a nervous “Yes.”
“And for yourself, you will remember that you are on probation. If you make a fool of yourself—there’s the cheque. If I have any cause to distrust you—there’s what you’ve had a taste of already, and more to come. You are on probation—and when I use a man on probation I keep a pretty tight check on him. Do you get that? You had better. If you say more, or less, to John Gladisloe than I’ve told you to say, I shall know it. Don’t you forget that!”
Lindsay pushed back his chair with a jerk.
“I say, don’t talk like that! I—I’ll do my best.”
“Nine-forty-five—7 Portesbery Square. You will give your name as Smith,” said Drayton curtly.
Lindsay supposed that the audience was terminated. He got up. As he did so, something caught his eye. When he pushed his chair back, one leg had caught the hearth-rug and rucked it up. Against the fold something glinted. The sheet of paper that Lindsay had in his hand dropped. He exclaimed, and, bending to pick it up, retrieved the tiny glittering thing. He wrapped the paper round it and slipped it into his pocket.
Drayton had no more to say.
Lindsay went out by the second door, which led direct into the passage. His heart was thumping. His hands were cold. It seemed about a mile to his room.
When he had shut and bolted the door, he took the folded paper from his pocket and opened it. A small diamond flower like a miniature daisy slipped into the palm of his hand. It was just a fortnight since he had touched it last. It was the middle flower of a spray. He had stood with his hand on Marian’s shoulder and moved it with the tip of his finger. He could hear their voices now, like the voices of two people in a play:
“It’s loose—you’ll lose it.”
That was Lindsay Trevor.
“I must remember to have it mended.”
That was Marian Rayne.
The flower had been warm then because it lay against Marian’s bare warm shoulder. It was cold now. She had not remembered to have it mended. She had lost it in Drayton’s room.
CHAPTER XX
LINDSAY LEFT THE HOUSE just after nine o’clock. He carried with him a report of his conversation with Drayton. Before posting it he had to make sure that he was not followed. He did not think that he would be followed on this occasion. Drayton would be tolerably sure of his keeping his appointment with Sir John Gladisloe. He knew—perhaps he alone knew—just to what extent he had the whip hand of Trevor Fothering. Lindsay, in Froth’s shoes, could only guess at the raw places the whip had flicked. That Drayton was prepared to bring it down with smashing brutality, he had no doubt. Froth wasn’t the man to face penal servitude for the sake of what remnants of conscience he had left. No, he thought that Drayton would feel quite easy about his instructions being carried out. On the other hand, you never could tell, and he wasn’t taking risks.
When he was quite satisfied that he was not being followed, he posted his report and went on his way to Portesbery Square. He wasn’t at all sure what he was going to do. He would have liked to give the man a hint, but he had a conviction that Drayton had not been bluffing when he declared that he would know whether his instructions had been exactly carried out. Lindsay hadn’t, of course, any idea of how Drayton would know. He had the solid conviction that he would kn
ow.
As he rang the bell of 7 Portesbery Square, it occurred to him that of all the jobs he had ever undertaken he liked this one the least.
He was shown into a study and left alone there. A man’s room gives the key to his character. This was the room of a wealthy man; but the wealth was subordinated to comfort, and as Lindsay judged, to sentiment. The mantelpiece and the top of a book-stand were covered with photographs, most of them old and faded. The chairs were in their comfortable middle age. On a clear space of wall immediately opposite the writing-table hung the portrait of a woman with big sad eyes and an air of fragile dignity. The hair above the dark sad eyes was silver white. The long pale fingers held a scarlet carnation.
Lindsay was still looking at the portrait, when the door opened and Sir John Gladisloe came in, tall and spare, with a grey face and grey hair, and the look of a man who is sleeping badly. He came to a halt with the shut door behind him, fixed a bleak look upon his visitor, and said,
“Mr Smith?”
“Er—yes,” said Lindsay. He had decided to play the part as Trevor Fothering would have played it. Froth would undoubtedly have been nervous. The last accounts of him did not present the portrait of one who would do his blackmailing with an air.
Lindsay registered conscious guilt and admitted to the name of Smith in a nervous whisper. All the time his mind was working on the question of how Drayton was going to check up this interview. He had already deduced a spy in the garrison. Someone in the Gladisloe household was in Drayton’s pay. Listening at doors would be rather crude. He had made sure that the window curtains did not conceal a listener. But it would be easy enough to contrive a tube leading from the cornice to one of the upper rooms; those heavy mouldings with their alternate acanthus leaves and pomegranates would shelter a much larger hole than the one required.
“You made an appointment,” said Sir John curtly. He had the air of a man who wishes to avoid as far as possible an undesired proximity.
“Yes,” said Lindsay again.
Sir John crossed the room, keeping well away from him. He reached the other side of the writing-table and spoke from there:
“Will you kindly state your business?” Lindsay advanced a step.
“I am here,” he said nervously—“er—in continuation of the correspondence under dates of December 15th and 21st, and January 2nd and 7th.”
Sir John looked at him beneath straight grey brows. Lindsay could admire his bearing.
“Well?”
Lindsay moistened his lips.
“I am to say that there is to be no further correspondence.”
“Indeed?” said Sir John. “Is that all?”
“Er—no—there’s a message.”
“Give it to me.”
“You are to begin to make cuts in the wages of all grades of your employees within the next fortnight.”
The grey face was a little greyer.
“Indeed? Is that all?”
“Er—no. You are to be prepared to go on making cuts until there is a strike. There must be a strike not later than the first week in February. Er—it is to be understood that it is the Government’s disarmament policy which is responsible for the cuts.”
Not a muscle of Sir John’s face moved. His eyes looked past Lindsay. Lindsay had a feeling that he was something too foul to be looked at. He would have liked to call out, “Well played!”
Still without moving, Sir John spoke:
“Do you happen to know that blackmail is punishable with penal servitude for life?”
Lindsay did not feel called upon to answer this. He remained silent. He thought that if he had really been a blackmailer, he would not have chosen Sir John Gladisloe as a subject. After a moment Sir John spoke again:
“Is that all that you have to say to me?”
“Er—it all depends on you.”
“You had better explain yourself.”
“It depends on your answer.”
“And if I have no answer?”
“Er—I suppose that would amount to a refusal of the—er—terms.”
“It is open to you to put your own construction upon it.”
“If you refuse,” said Lindsay, “I was to tell you what the next step would be.”
Sir John, standing beside his table, had one hand upon it. He leaned upon this hand very slightly now. “Deliver your message,” he said in the same controlled voice that he had used throughout.
Lindsay reminded himself that this was a matter of more than one man’s peace of mind, and that there was almost certainly a hole in the cornice or some equivalent accommodation for Drayton’s spy.
“If you refuse, I was to tell you that a copy taken from the register of St Mary’s, Coldingham, of the date of May 8th 1903 will be forwarded, with—er—other evidence, to the office of the Public Prosecutor.”
That grey control held. After a moment Sir John took his hand from the table and straightened himself. He was, perhaps, afraid to lean on anything just then. When the walls and the roof of the house are falling in, it is better not to lean on anything.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
Lindsay forced himself on.
“Not quite.”
“Finish what you have to say.”
“I was to say that, in case of your death, the same information would appear in the Press.”
He could not, after all, bring in the sad-eyed woman who looked down on them with the red carnation in those thin, frail hands. If Drayton knew of the omission, the eavesdropping would be fairly proved. He could play a nervous lapse of memory. These were his thoughts afterwards. At the time he merely baulked at Lady Gladisloe’s name.
For an instant Sir John looked at him. A flush rose painfully to the roots of the thick grey hair.
After that one instant Sir John had looked away. At last he said, “I will give an answer—later. You had better go.”
Lindsay went.
After the door had shut behind him Sir John Gladisloe remained standing just where he was for perhaps five minutes. Then he straightened himself with a jerk and went out of the room and up the broad, easy stair.
In a small room on the half-landing the original of the portrait was waiting for him. She sat in the corner of a sofa, her head with its thick silver hair very erect, her fine pale hands clasped together on her knee. The room was brightly lighted, and the light picked out the jewel colours of the embroidered Chinese shawl which draped her slight figure. She had been looking down at her own hands, but when the door opened she lifted her eyes and smiled. It was rather a heartbreaking smile.
“Come and tell me,” she said.
He came and stood beside her.
“It is what we thought.”
“What are they going to do, John?”
He said, “I wonder,” and looked down, frowning heavily.
“What do they threaten to do?”
“Send the entry from the register with other evidence to the Public Prosecutor.”
Her hands pressed each other and she became, if possible, a little paler.
“Do you think they will do it?”
His frown deepened.
“I don’t know.”
She looked up at him then. Her eyes had more blue in them than the portrait showed.
“What do they want you to do?”
“I’m to force a strike by cutting wages.”
She exclaimed faintly at that.
“How wicked!” Then, after a pause, “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said John Gladisloe. He went down on his knees and put his arms round her. “I can’t face it for you,” he said.
“John—don’t! Don’t, darling! It—it isn’t as if you’d done anything wrong. You thought she was dead.”
“I hoped she was. I thought—oh yes
, God knows I thought she was dead. Evans wrote and told me, but I didn’t keep the letter.” He controlled his voice with an effort. “I don’t suppose the Public Prosecutor would move in the matter. If he did, nothing would come of it.” He laughed bitterly. “Nothing except the washing of all our dirty linen in public.”
“If it comes to that, you must bear it, John.”
“It will kill you,” he said.
She shook her head.
“No—I won’t let it.”
He got up and walked away from her to the other side of the room. From the mantelpiece a pretty fairhaired girl in a fluffy dance frock smiled on them both. She had a gay, confident air and bright unshadowed eyes.
“And Cynthia?” said John Gladisloe.
A look of agony passed across Mary Gladisloe’s face. With John’s back to her, she could for a moment relax the self-control which had kept a smile on her lips. When she spoke, her voice was steady and sweet.
“Cynthia isn’t—brittle.”
Still with his back to her, John Gladisloe said,
“In the eyes of the law she will be—illegitimate.”
Mary Gladisloe got up and went to him. Her shawl slipped, and she caught it up with her usual gentle composure. She leaned against him and spoke softly:
“John, we are just one family. If there are these wage cuts and—a strike, there will be—suffering—for hundreds—children—and old people. I don’t want to push our sufferings on to them. I don’t want to be saved, and I don’t want Cynthia to be saved—at their expense.”
He dropped his head on her shoulder, and they stood without speaking for a long time. When he lifted his head again he looked like a man who has set himself to a hard day’s work.
“You’re sure, Mary?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.” She lifted her chin. “We’ll fight them. Perhaps we’ll win—but if we don’t, we’ll keep our self respect. Why, if we gave way this time, what would the next demand be, and where would it end? If it hadn’t been for me, you would never have dreamt of giving way.”
John Gladisloe walked to the telephone table and picked up the instrument.
“What are you going to do, John?”
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