The old green desk stood on the table. It had been turned inside out. The drawers of the bureau were standing out upon the floor.
Charles whistled. He went over to the bedroom, knocked, and then in sudden deadly fear, pushed in. The light showed him Margaret’s black day dress lying across a chair. The room was empty. The little kitchen was empty too. Margaret was clearly out.
Charles returned to the sitting-room and sat down to await her return. He left the room in its disorder, and as he sat looking at his disorder he thought very deeply.
Margaret-what a mess she had got herself into! That little ass Freddy! If there was a comic opera conspiracy knocking around, it was just like Freddy to get mixed up in it-all very earnestly-very much pour le bon motif. He could imagine Freddy full of bright and boring enthusiasms, full to the brim of absurd zeal, and then suddenly discovering that he’d got let in by a lot of crooks and being scared to death. A well-meaning little fool if ever there was one. But Margaret-what could one do about Margaret? That she should have been dragged into the mess to save Freddy’s skin! She must be got out again-that went without saying; and if Freddy had got her in, it was for Freddy to get her out. Those statements she had signed must be got back. By hook or crook Freddy must get them back. He couldn’t have been mixed up with the Grey Mask lot for twenty-five years or so without getting to know a bit. He probably knew where the papers were likely to be; it was even barely possible that he had kept them himself. An early interview with Freddy Pelham was certainly indicated.
Margaret came in at eleven.
“Charles! What on earth?”
“You’re not as surprised as I was when I got here and found a burglar in possession.”
“A burglar!”
“Did you think I’d been going through your desk and bureau?”
Margaret gazed at the turned out drawers, the ransacked desk.
“What did he come for?” said Charles quickly. “What did he come for, and what did he get away with?”
“Oh!” said Margaret. “Oh, I left it locked.”
“The bureau?”
“This drawer.” She turned over the papers that lay in confusion. “Charles, it’s gone!”
“What’s gone?”
“The certificate. No, it wasn’t the certificate-it was only the envelope. I forgot-you don’t know that Greta found it. Charles, do you know who Greta’s mother was? She was my mother’s sister. She was Margaret Brandon. The certificate was in my mother’s desk. Greta is my cousin.”
“You found the certificate?”
“No-only the envelope, endorsed by Edward Standing. The marriage was secret-a Scotch marriage by declaration. I’ve just been hearing the whole story from my mother’s oldest friend.” She told him what Lesbia Ravenna had told her. “I don’t know how the envelope came to be in my mother’s desk.”
“You say Standing gave the declaration back to Mrs. Faring. She probably wouldn’t keep it herself-I think she would have been afraid to keep it herself. But perhaps she wouldn’t destroy it, for the child’s sake and perhaps for her own sake too, in case the story ever came out. I expect she gave it to her sister to keep.”
“But the envelope was empty.”
“Well,” said Charles, “Mrs. Faring had committed bigamy. They may have been frightened about that. It was certainly safer not to keep the declaration.”
“They kept the envelope.”
“Aren’t women like that? They like to keep something. They don’t go the whole hog and make a clean sweep of the past like a man does. You say the envelope’s gone.”
“Yes. It was here. Look! The lock’s been forced.”
“What was on it?”
“Mr. Standing’s endorsement-Greta recognised his writing at once: ‘Our declaration of marriage. E.S.’ I think she had signed it too, because something had been rubbed out-initials, I think, like his. I thought the second one was a B. You could only just see the marks.”
“There was nothing inside the envelope?”
“Nothing at all.”
The drawer that had been locked was full of tumbled papers. Margaret began to straighten them. As she lifted one, a snapshot of Charles looked up at her. She covered it quickly. That old boyish smile was gone.
“Here, let’s put these things away.”
Charles spoke from just behind her. She did not know whether he had seen the photograph or not. He helped her to put the drawers away. It was strange to be doing these things with Charles; strange and yet extraordinarily natural to be talking to him in her flat at midnight. It was the first time since their parting that they had talked without bitterness. The hour comforted Margaret. He would go away, and he would marry Greta; but at least there would have been this moment when he didn’t hate her. Perhaps when he was married to Greta he would stop hating her altogether. The thought touched something that lay dead, and the old vehement, passionate Margaret woke.
All at once she was so intensely aware of Charles and of herself that they might have been new creatures in a new world. The colour came into her cheeks.
Charles looked at her in astonishment. The sad pale ghost of Margaret was gone. This was Margaret herself.
They looked at one another in silence. The little green clock which he had given her ticked from the mantelpiece. Charles pushed the last drawer home and rose to his feet. She was only a yard away, but there were four years between them still.
“Why did you do it?” he said. It was the third time that he had asked the question; he had not meant to ask it now.
“I told you,” said Margaret with her head up.
“It wasn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I’ve got.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth four years ago?”
“What was the good? There was no way out.”
“There’s always a way out. We could have made one together.” He spoke with extreme vehemence; the flood of it carried him beyond his own control. “You never loved me. That’s the truth.”
Margaret looked at him. The tide of passion rose and ebbed again. She would not protest that old dead love to the Charles of today. She looked at him, and the strange sense of newness passed away. This was the flat, unprofitable every-day to which all romance came in the end. You had to go on and do your best without it-you had to go on. The colour and the fire went from her. She looked very tired.
Charles became intensely aware of having made a fool of himself. He gave a short angry laugh.
“It’s a bit late in the day for scenes-isn’t it? I don’t know why I dug that up-it’s rather a poor thing in ghosts. I meant to talk business with you. I’d like to still, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s very late.” The words came slowly. Charles was quite right-it was very late-it was four years too late.
“I won’t keep you long. I wanted to ask you about those statements you signed. Have you any idea who’s got them?”
“I suppose Grey Mask has got them.”
“You don’t think it possible that Freddy has them?”
“Oh no-I’m sure he hasn’t. He told me he had to satisfy the others.”
Charles frowned.
“Those statements must be got back. I can’t move whilst you’re compromised-and I’ve got to move for Greta’s sake.”
Margaret leaned against the mantelpiece.
“I’m afraid there’s no way of getting them back. You had better leave me out of it.”
“How can I?”
“Very easily.”
Charles looked at her coldly.
“I call that unintelligent. Do you really expect me to do anything that would land you in a police court?”
A bright flame burned her cheeks.
“I don’t ask to be considered. Do you suppose I care what happens to me? Do you suppose I want you to risk Greta?”
Charles’ frown darkened.
“I haven’t any choice. Please be practical. Freddy got you into the mess, and Freddy ought to
get you out of it. When is he off?”
“He moved out of the house today. You heard what he said-he may be off any day. He hates to be tied.”
“I see. All right, I’ll be going.”
He went as far as the door, then turned, strode back, and jerked a sudden question at her;
“Who’s Grey Mask?”
“I don’t know,” said Margaret.
“You’ve no idea? None?”
She shook her head. She was frightfully pale.
“Does Freddy know?”
“I don’t believe any of them know,” said Margaret in a whisper.
CHAPTER XXXVI
At eleven o’clock that night the Standing house in Grange Street was in darkness. On the three upper floors blinds were down, curtains drawn, and lights switched off; in the hall a faint glimmer from the small shaded bulb which burned all night over the telephone.
A man entered Grange Square by Caton Walk and proceeded at a slow and leisured pace round two sides of it until he came to the dark square house at the corner. Here he stood quite still. The railings which enclosed the plane trees, empty flower beds, and grass plots of Grange Gardens were at his back.
It was a black night, and he stood where the shadows were blackest. He watched the house for ten minutes or so, then walked across the road and up the steps. Here again he stood and waited.
The house was as quiet as a house might be. The basement windows showed no glimmer. The man opened the door with a latch-key and passed into the hall. It was quite pleasantly warm after the cold in the square. The tiny bulb over the telephone made the darkness here seem less dense than the dark outside.
The man crossed the hall and stood a moment by the study door listening. Then he opened the door very softly and went in. It was about ten minutes before he came out again. This time he went up the stairs, which crossed the back of the hall in a double flight. He had reached the landing, when the front door opened and closed again softly. The man on the stair put his right hand in his pocket, and then moved without haste into the angle made by the stair as it continued its upward way. He listened for the sound of another foot on the marble steps. The only sound that came was the click of an electric switch.
Instantly the hall below was lighted from end to end, and against this light the outline of the balustrade, showed black. The man on the stairs came forward, leaned on the balustrade and looked over into the hall. He saw the black and white tesselated floor all empty, and on the left the open dining-room door. As he looked, the light went on in the dining-room, and at the same time he heard a faint shuffling sound. It was the sound of someone moving, of someone coming downstairs; but not down these stairs-the sound was too faint for that. If the man had not possessed phenomenally acute hearing, the sound would not have reached him at all.
Someone was coming down the back stairs. He had only to stand where he was, to be unobserved. It appeared, however, that he not only desired to remain unseen; he wished, nay, he intended, to see. He moved quickly along a passage to the right until he reached a door that opened upon the back stairs. Here he waited, listening. The soft snuffling footsteps were below him. He opened the door. The stairs were dark. He followed the footsteps down into the darkness.
At the foot of the stairs there was a baize door. He opened it cautiously. The long passage was black, but even as he looked, light showed at the far end. A second door swung open, a man’s figure showed against the light, and then the door swung to again.
After a moment the man followed. At the second door he listened. There was no sound, but the room beyond was lighted. He peeped cautiously. The lighted room was empty. He had come to the butler’s pantry. A door led out of it through a short length of passage to the dining-room. He took this way with some assurance, and at the dining-room door the sound of voices gave him pause.
Very slowly and gently, he moved the handle round until the latch slipped and the door came a bare half inch towards him. Through the chink he looked into the lighted dining-room. There were two men there, both fully dressed. He was able to recognize them both without difficulty. Facing him was the footman William Cole. He held a tumbler half full of whisky and soda. His coat was torn at the neck, the right cuff was ripped, his hair a good deal disordered. The other man was the butler, Pullen. They were talking.
“Who was it?” This was Pullen, a little more hurried than when he was on duty.
“How should I know? I didn’t wait to ask his name, I can tell you. It took me all I knew to get away-and all for nothing.”
“You didn’t find it?”
William took a drink.
“Found the envelope. What they’ve done with the paper beats me.”
He pulled out a long envelope and flung it down on the table. Pullen picked it up and held it at arm’s length to read the endorsement: “ ‘ Our declaration of marriage.’ Yes, that’s it.”
“But it’s empty. I’d hardly put my hand on it before I had to cut and run. When I looked inside I could have done murder.”
“Where’s the declaration? That’s what I want to know.”
“The girl’s got it, of course. The question is-where’s the girl?”
“ Kimberley ’s found her already. I went on to the Foster’s. There’s nothing there, unless she had it on her. She was out with Millar.”
“That girl’s been here too long. She’s got to go. Once she’s gone, it don’t matter if a hundred certificates turn up. She’s got to go, and that’s an end of it.”
William finished his whisky.
“Well, do her in yourself,” he said.
“It’s not my line.”
“Why should it be mine?”
“Well, it’s yours-isn’t it-Lenny Morrison?”
William’s face underwent a horrible change. The stout Pullen recoiled.
“Less of that! D’you hear? Call me that again, and you’ll be sorry for it. As to the girl, she’s Egbert’s job, isn’t she?”
“He won’t. I said so all along. Grey Mask’s giving you the job. It wants neat doing, and Egbert’s a bungler if I ever saw one. Now, look here! There are to be no more delays.”
The man at the door went on listening for another ten minutes. Then he retraced his steps and vanished into the darkness outside the house.
Outside in the square Miss Silver waited patiently for another hour. When the man came out, she followed him.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Mrs. Foster came down to breakfast on Thursday morning in a state of nervous exasperation.
“Really, Archie’s the limit! Yes, I know he’s my cousin. Now, George, it’s no use you looking like that-I never said he was your cousin or anybody else’s cousin-I know he’s mine. But you needn’t try and make out that all your relations are angel beings who never do tiresome things, or land you in holes, or shove strange girls onto you in the middle of a dinner-party.”
The broad face of George Foster emerged from behind The Times.
“Got a bit off the rails, haven’t you? Take a good deep breath and start fresh.”
“George!”
“My dear child, what is it?”
“I’m feeling simply too temperamental, and I could kill Archie! First he dumps this girl on me in the very middle of a dinner party-”
“My good Ernestine!”
“It was the next thing to it, and my table would have been utterly spoilt if I hadn’t been firm and insisted on his removing her for the evening.”
George grinned.
“I didn’t notice your having to insist very much. Archie appeared only too anxious to oblige.”
“Oh, of course he’s in love with her. It’s the only excuse he’s got. George, if you go on rustling the paper like that, I shall scream.”
“What is the matter?”
“Really, George, you might have a little consideration, after the shock of having burglars and a dinner-party and Archie’s stray flapper all happening together. And I want to know what brought Maud Silver here. She a
sked for that girl.”
“Who’s Maud Silver?”
Ernestine flushed scarlet and bit her lip.
“You know perfectly well. She got back those odious diamonds your mother gave me. And I must say I didn’t think you’d refer to it now when I’m feeling as if I simply couldn’t bear to hear myself think.”
George said nothing; he returned to the golfing news.
“I do really think you might say something, George! You’re simply immersed in that wretched paper. I believe you’d just go on reading it with a burglar in the very room.”
“What d’you want me to say? Hullo! Sandy Herd did a jolly hot round yesterday.”
“Really, George!”
“What’s the matter?”
“If you talk to me about golf, I shall burst into tears.”
“What d’you want me to talk about?”
“The burglar, of course. What on earth did he come for?”
“Anything he could collect, I suppose.”
“Then why did he pull out everything in the spare room and not so much as look for my diamonds? Can you tell me that?”
George could not. He lacked interest in the burglar. Since nothing had been taken, why make a song and dance about it? He reverted to golf.
Miss Greta Wilson was late for breakfast. When she had finished, she accompanied a slightly calmer but still fractious hostess on what George rudely described as a “nose-flattening tour.”
“Men never seem to think you want any clothes,” said Mrs. Foster. “George is perfectly hopeless. If I say I want a new evening dress, he boasts, positively boasts, of the fact that his evening clothes are pre-Ararat.”
Greta giggled.
“I love looking at clothes,” she.said. “It’s the next best thing to buying them-isn’t it?”
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