“‘What is it?’ she said, ‘whatever can you have to say that can be of any possible interest to me?’
“‘Why,’ I replied, ‘to begin with I know something about your character!’
“‘Then you’re a fortune teller!’ she exclaimed eagerly, ‘can you read hands?’
“‘I can read everything,’ I said looking hard at her, ‘hands, head, and feet. I am psychometrist, dentist, physician, metaphysician all in one!’
“‘I don’t understand,’ she said looking queer, ‘what is the meaning of all this?’
“‘It means,’ I said slowly, ‘that I have discovered who sent those anonymous letters to Herbert Delmas!’
“‘Anonymous letters! how dare you!’ she cried, ‘what have anonymous letters to do with me?’
“‘A very great deal, madam,’ I replied, ‘shall I remind you of their contents and the occasions on which you wrote them?’ I did so. I recited every word in them and told her the hour, day and place—namely, when and where each was written, and I summed up by asking what she would pay me not to tell Delmas.
“For some minutes she was too overcome to say anything; she sat grim and silent, her pale eyes glaring at me, her freckled fingers toying with the diamonds. She was baffled and perplexed—she did not know what course to pursue!
“‘Well,’ I repeated, ‘what have you to say? Do you deny it?’
“She roused herself with an effort. ‘No,’ she said venomously, ‘I don’t deny it. Denial would be useless. How did you find out? Through one of the maids, I suppose. They were bribed to spy on me!’
“‘How I discovered it is of no consequence,’ I said, ‘but what is of consequence to you as much as to me—is the payment for hushing it up!’
“‘Payment!’ she cried, raising her voice to a positive shriek in her excitement, ‘pay you—you nasty, beastly, cadging toad. You—’ but I can’t repeat all she said, it would make you both blush! I let her go on till she had worn herself out and then I said, ‘Well, Miss Barlow, why all this fuss—why these fireworks! It can’t do you any good. We must come to business sooner or later. If you don’t pay me handsomely I shall tell Miss Roberts as well as Mr. Delmas.’
“‘Mr. Delmas won’t believe you,’ she hissed, ‘you’ve no proofs at all!’
“‘Perhaps not,’ I said, ‘but I’ve proofs of this. I know you have two deformed toes on your left foot, that all your teeth are false, and that you go to that charlatan, Howard Prince, in Californian Street to be faked up. I must be brutal—it’s no use being anything else to women of your sort. You’ve got a certain species of eczema, and you flatter yourself that no one but you and Prince are aware of it. What have you got to say now, Miss Barlow?’ But Ella Barlow had fainted. When she came to, which I managed after vigorous application of salts and water—the effects of the latter on her complexion I leave you to imagine—I again broached the subject.
“‘What is it you propose?’ she said feebly.
“‘Why this,’ I said, ‘you hand me over all those diamonds, and your defects will—as far as I am concerned—always remain a secret. Refuse, and Miss Roberts and Mr. Delmas shall know all there is to be known at once.’
“For some minutes she sat with her face buried in her hands—shivering. Then she looked up at me—and Jerusalem! it was like looking at an old woman. ‘Take them,’ she said, ‘take them! I shall never wear them again, anyhow. Take them—and leave me.’
“Well, you fellows, I steeled my heart, and slipped every Jack one that was on her into my pocket.
“‘You won’t tell them,’ she whispered, catching hold of me by the arm, ‘you swear you won’t.’ I won’t try and remember exactly what I answered—but outside the door of the box Delmas joined me. He had been concealed within and had heard everything that passed.
“‘I can’t say how grateful I am to you,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit low down, perhaps, but, then, we were dealing with a low-down person. You thoroughly deserve those diamonds—will you accept an offer for them from me? I should like to buy them for Miss Roberts and present them to her on our reconciliation.’ We came to terms then and there, and he ‘phoned through to me an hour ago to say that he had made it up with Miss Roberts, that she was delighted with the diamonds, and that they are going to be married next month.”
“So out of evil good comes,” Hamar said, “the maxim for us, remember, is—out of evil evil alone must come. What are you going to do to-day, you two?”
“Rest!” said Kelson, “I’m tired.”
“Eat!” said Curtis, “I’m hungry!”
“Now look here, this won’t do,” Hamar remarked, “you’ve earned your rest, Matt, but you haven’t, Ed. You can’t go on eating eternally.”
“Can’t I?” Curtis snapped, “I’m not so sure of that, I’ve years to make up for.”
“Then do the thing in moderation, for goodness sake!” Hamar expostulated, “and recollect we must, at all costs, act together. We have now twelve thousand dollars between us in the bank—that is to say, the capital of the Firm of Hamar, Curtis and Kelson represents that amount. It is our ambition to increase that amount—and to go on increasing it till we can fairly claim to be the richest Firm in the world. Now to do that we must work, and work hard, if we are to live at the pace Ed is setting us—but there is no reason why we should remain here, and I propose that we move elsewhere. I’ve got a scheme in my head, rather a colossal one I admit, but not altogether impossible.”
“What is it?” Kelson asked.
“Yes, out with it,” Curtis grunted.
“It is this,” Hamar said, “I suggest that we go to London—London in England—I guess it’s the richest town in the world—and there set up as sorcerers—The Sorcery Company Ltd. We should begin with divination and juggling, and go on, according to the seven stages. We should of course sell our cures and spells, and there is not the slightest doubt but that we should make an enormous pile, with which we would gradually buy up, not merely London, but the whole of England.”
“That’s rather a tall order,” Kelson murmured.
“A small one, you mean,” Curtis sneered, “you could put the whole of England twice over in California, and from what I’ve heard I don’t go much on London. I reckon it isn’t much bigger than San Francisco.”
“Still you wouldn’t mind being joint owner of it,” Hamar laughed.”
“No, perhaps not,” Curtis said rather dubiously. “I guess we could buy the crown and wear it in turn. Sam Westlake up at Meidler’s always used to say the Britishers would sell their souls if any one bid high enough. They think of nothing but money over there. When shall we go?”
“At the end of our week,” Hamar said, “that is to say on Wednesday—in three days’ time.”
“First class all the way, of course,” Curtis said, “I’ll see to the arrangements for the catering and berths.”
“All right!” Hamar laughed, as he filled three glasses with champagne. “Here, drink, you fellows, ‘Long life, health and prosperity—to Hamar, Curtis and Kelson, the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd.’”
CHAPTER VIII
TWO DREAMS
“Do you believe in dreams?” Gladys Martin inquired, as, fresh from a stroll in the garden, she joined her aunt, Miss Templeton, in the breakfast room at Pine Cottage.
“I believe in fairies,” Miss Templeton rejoined, smiling indulgently as she looked at the fair face beside her. “What was the dream, dearie?”
Gladys laughed a little mischievously. “I don’t quite know whether I ought to tell you,” she said. “It might shock you.”
“Perhaps I’m not so easily shocked as you imagine,” Miss Templeton replied. “What was it?”
“Well!” Gladys began, flinging both arms round her aunt’s neck and playing with the pleats in her blouse, “I dreamed that I
was walking in the little wood at the end of the garden, and that the trees and flowers walked and talked with me. And we danced together—and, first of all, I had for my partner, a red rose—and then, an ash. They both made love to me, and squeezed my waist with their hot, fibrous hands. A poppy piped, a bramble played the concertina, and a lilac grew desperately jealous of me and tried to claw my hair. Then the dancing ceased, and I found myself in the midst of bluebells that shook their bells at me with loud trills of laughter. And out from among them, came a buttercup, pointing its yellow head at me. ‘See! see,’ it cried, ‘what Gladys is carrying behind her. Naughty Gladys!’ And trees and flowers—everything around me—shook with laughter. Then I grew hot and cold all over, and did not know which way to look for my confusion, till a willow, having compassion on me said, ‘Take no notice of them! They don’t know any better.’
“I begged him to explain to me why they were so amused, and he grew very embarrassed and uncomfortable, and stammered—oh! so funnily, ‘Well if you really wish to know—it’s a bud, a baby white rose, and it’s clinging to your dress.’
“‘A baby! A baby rose!’ shrieked all the flowers.
“‘And it means,’ a bluebell said, stepping perkily out from amidst its fellows, ‘that your lover is coming—your lover with a troll-le-loll-la—and—well, if you want to know more ask the gooseberries, the gooseberries that hang on the bushes, or the parsley that grows in the bed,’—and at that all the flowers and trees shrieked with laughter—‘Ta-ta-tra-la-la’—and with my ears full of the rude laughter of the wood I awoke. What do you think of it? Isn’t it rather a quaint mixture of the—of the sacred—at least the artistic—and the profane?”
“Quite so,” said Miss Templeton with an amused chuckle, “but I shouldn’t ask for an interpretation of it if I were you.”
“Not for an interpretation of the trees and flowers?” Gladys asked innocently. “I’m sure trees and flowers have a special significance in dreams.”
“Very well then, my dear, ask Mrs. Sprat.”
“What! ask the Vicar’s wife!” Gladys ejaculated, “when I never go to church.”
“Certainly,” Miss Templeton replied, laughing again, “Mrs. Sprat will quite understand. And I’ve always been told she is very interested in anything to do with the Occult. But hush! Here’s your father. You’d better not tell him your dream. He’s tired to death, he says, of hearing about your lovers, and agrees with me—there’s no end to them.”
“Never mind what he says—his bark’s worse then his bite,” Gladys rejoined, “he doesn’t really care how many I have so long as they keep within bounds, and I like them! Father!”
John Martin, who entered the room at that moment, went straight to his daughter to be kissed.
“I wish you wouldn’t always select that bald spot,” he said testily, “I don’t want to be everlastingly reminded I’m losing my hair.”
“Where do you want me to kiss you, then?” Gladys argued, “on the tip of your nose? That’s all very well for you, John Martin, but I prefer the top of your head. But the poor dear looks worried, what is it?”
“I didn’t have a very good night,” her father replied, “I dreamed a lot!” Gladys looked at Miss Templeton and laughed.
“Did you?” she said gently. “What a shame! I never dream. What was it all about?”
“Flowers!” John Martin snapped, “idiotic flowers! Roses, lilac, tulips! Bah! I do wish you would have some other hobby.”
Gladys looked at her aunt again, this time with a half serious, half questioning expression.
“Shall I be a politician?” she cooed, “and fill the house with suffragettes? You bad man, I believe you would revel in it. Don’t you think so, Auntie?”
“I think, instead of teasing your father so unmercifully, you had better pour him out a cup of tea,” Miss Templeton replied. “Jack, there’s a letter for you.”
“Where? Under my plate! what a place to put it. That’s you,” and John Martin frowned, or rather, attempted to frown, at Gladys. “Why it’s about Davenport—Dick Davenport. He’s very ill—had a stroke yesterday, and the doctor declares his condition critical. His nephew, Shiel, so Anne says, has been sent for, and arrived at Sydenham last night! If that’s not bad news I don’t know what is!” John Martin said, thrusting his plate away from him and leaning back in his chair. “It’s true I can manage the business all right myself—and there’s the possibility, of course, that this young Shiel may shape all right. I suppose if anything happens he will step into Dick’s shoes. I’ve never heard Dick mention any one else. Poor old Dick!”
“I am so sorry, father!” Gladys said, laying her hand on his. “But cheer up! It may not be as bad as you expect. Shall you go and see how he is?”
“I think so, my dear! I think so,” John Martin replied, “but don’t worry me about it now. Talk to your aunt and leave me out of it, I’m a bit upset. My brain’s in a regular whirl!”
Undoubtedly the news was something in the nature of a blow: for Dick Davenport, apart from being John Martin’s partner—partner in the firm of Martin and Davenport, the world-renowned conjurors, whose hall in the Kingsway was one of the chief amusement places in London, was John Martin’s oldest friend. They had been chums at Cheltenham College, had entered the Army and gone to India together, had quitted the Service together, and, on returning together to England, had started their conjuring business, first of all in Sloane Street, and subsequently in the Kingsway. From the very start their enterprise had met with success, and, had it not been for Davenport’s wild extravagance, they would have been little short of millionaires. But Davenport, though a most lovable character in every respect, could not keep money—he no sooner had it than it was gone. His house in Sydenham was little short of a palace; whilst, it was said, he almost rivalled royalty, in magnificent display, whenever he entertained. The result of all this reckless expenditure was no uncommon one—he ran through considerably more than he earned and—as there was no one else to help him—he invariably came down on John Martin. It was “Jack, old boy, I’m damned sorry, but I must have another thousand;” or, “Jack! these infernal scamps of creditors are worrying the life out of me, can you, will you, lend me a trifle—a couple of thousand will do it”—and so on—so on, ad infinitum. John Martin never refused, and at the time of Davenport’s illness, the latter owed him something like a hundred thousand pounds.
Fortunately John Martin, though far from parsimonious, was careful. He had an excellent business head, and, thanks to his sagacious share in the management, the business remained solvent. He knew Davenport’s capacity—that nowhere could he have found another such a brilliant genius in conjuring—nor, apart from his thriftlessness, any one so thoroughly reliable. In Davenport’s keeping all the great tricks they had invented—and great tricks they undoubtedly were—were absolutely safe.
Despite the fact that they had repeatedly offered big sums of money to any one who could discover the secret of how they were done, every attempt to do so had utterly failed. The Mysteries of Martin and Davenport’s Home of Wonder, in the Kingsway, baffled the world. Of course one thing had helped them enormously—namely, they had no rivals. So colossal was their reputation, that no one else had ever even thought of setting up in opposition.
And now one of the two great master-minds, that had accomplished all these marvels and acquired such universal fame, was stricken down, checkmated by the still greater power of nature; and his colleague—the only other man in existence who shared his knowledge—was obliged to rack his brain as to what was now to be done—done for the continuance and prosperity of the firm.
After finishing her breakfast Gladys joined her aunt in the garden.
“To dream of flowers and trees evidently means bad news,” she said. “But as I feel in a mood for a walk, I shall call at the Vicarage.”
“What, now! At
this hour!” Miss Templeton cried aghast.
“Why not?” Gladys said imperturbably. “I’m not going to pay a call. They haven’t called on us. I shall say I’ve merely come to make an inquiry. Can she tell me of any one who interprets dreams? Come with me!”
But as her aunt pleaded an excuse, Gladys went alone.
The Vicar was in the garden in his shirt sleeves, and though obviously surprised to see Gladys, seemed quite prepared to enter into conversation with her. But Gladys was not enamoured of clergymen. Her ways were not their ways, and she had come strictly on business. Consequently she somewhat curtly demanded to be conducted into the presence of his wife, who received her very affably.
“Why, how very strange,” she observed when Gladys had stated the object of her visit. “I was asked a similar question only yesterday. A Miss Rosenberg, who is staying with us, had an extraordinary dream about trees and flowers—only it took the form of a poem, which she awoke repeating. There were several verses—quite doggerel it is true—but nevertheless rather remarkable for a dream. She wrote them down, and asked me if I could tell her whether there was any hidden meaning in them. Here they are,” and she handed Gladys two pages of sermon paper on which was written—
“In the greenest of green valleys,
Aglow with summer sun,
Lived a maiden fair and radiant,
More radiant there was none.
“The flowers gave her their friendship;
Her couch was on the ground.
A happier, gayer maiden,
Was nowhere to be found.
The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack Page 90