“Here’s a hundred and fifty on account,” he said, handing the notes over. “Now get at it. Nail this thing on to the burglar so that my wife hasn’t to go into the box and be badgered about that possible third person. Find out if you can what old Cotton’s driving at and cut the ground from under his feet. There are the jewels to be recovered too—ten thousand pounds’ reward on those, you know. The burglar only seems to have had one ring on him when he was caught.”
Mr. Felix Main was entirely convincing.
“I understand the situation exactly, Lord Glenlitten,” he said, as he escorted his departing client to the door. “I shall work on the lines you lay down, and I think I can promise you complete success.”
Andrew walked back almost happily. He was impressed by the fact that he had behaved like a remarkably shrewd man. He was attracted by some red roses in a florist’s shop and he sent home a wonderful basketful. Afterwards he called in at his club but found it sparsely filled, owing to the season of the year. He came in for a certain amount of chaff, however.
“Hullo, Andrew, lost the family plate, eh? That’s an old trick. Which insurance company?” one member demanded.
“Curse these plutocrats,” another grumbled. “Fifty thousand pounds’ worth of jewels, and I can’t afford lobster for lunch because it’s eighteen pence extra.”
Glenlitten ensconced himself in the most comfortable easy-chair he could find and ordered a whisky and soda.
“You fellows are a brutal and unsympathetic crowd,” he complained. “I have lost jewels amounting to more than your combined brains could ever have earned in a hundred years. My wife has seen a man shot, and will have to go into the witness box about it, and instead of coming and extending me the silent hand of sympathy you commence this frivolous effort at chaff. Waiter, offer drinks to these gentlemen. Will that appease you, I wonder?”
“I have never before,” his immediate neighbour declared, as he gave his order, “heard our friend Glenlitten so eloquent.”
“Never heard him open his mouth except to give an order,” another affirmed. “As to standing a drink—why, the fellow’s gone crazy. Feeling convinced that the opportunity will never occur again, I’ll take a double Scotch, waiter.”
“I pass over your rudeness,” Andrew groaned. “I came in here hoping to receive a little sympathy. What do I find? Nothing but ribaldry.”
“A callous crowd,” a man on the outskirts of the circle admitted, “but in these hard times no man’s wife ought to own a necklace worth thirty thousand pounds.”
“Belonged to Queen Charlotte,” Andrew pointed out, in an aggrieved fashion. “I never bought it or had anything to do with it. Just came to me because it had to.”
“An inheritance like that should be sold for the benefit of the poor,” a millionaire peer suggested.
“There are no poor,” a fellow Croesus grumbled. “The only poor nowadays are those who suffer from the demands made upon them because they are too rich.”
Andrew sighed.
“If you chaps are going to be clever,” he murmured….
A famous K.C. strolled in, with an evening paper in his hand, and joined the fringe of the group.
“Seen the latest scandal about the Glenlitten burglary case?” he demanded.
“Glenlitten’s here,” some one warned him. “Seems jolly well fed up about the case.”
The newcomer surreptitiously disposed of the paper he was carrying.
“Scurrilous rags these fourth editions,” he remarked. “Do I see free drinks going? Mine’s a whisky and soda.”
CHAPTER XII
The newspaper headlines the next morning were riotous. That sometimes bête noir of Scotland Yard, the enquiring journalist, had taken a hand in the game and scented out a fresh sensation. The whole tragedy at Glenlitten Court was revived in a new light. The burglary and murder had at first been linked together as a matter of course. Now there was a whole crop of new rumours. It was openly hinted that evidence had been procured of the presence of a third man in my lady’s chamber. Who was he? Where did he come from? For what purpose was he there? Was he too a burglar—or what? Andrew deliberately tore into pieces the most scurrilous of the newspapers and mounted to his wife’s boudoir. She was seated in front of a fire, sipping her coffee, and a single glance told him that he had been too late. The offending newspaper lay by her side, and the drawn look was back upon her face. He bent and kissed her.
“Been reading all that tosh!” he remarked scornfully. “Upon my word, our journalism is getting beneath contempt. Nothing but rank sensationalism and lies.”
She smiled a little wanly.
“You are very good, Andrew,” she said. “You speak cheerfully, but I know very well that it hurts you as it does me. According to these papers, to-day all of the people in London are asking the same question that your friend Sir Richard Cotton first hinted at? ‘Who was the third person in my bedroom who did shoot and kill De Besset?’ These newspapers do say that he was either an accomplice of the burglar, and probably has the rest of the jewels, or they keep silent because they dare not say what they think—and I have a pain in my heart, Andrew, because, although they do not dare to say it in plain words, I know what they would like others to think, and it hurts me.”
Her husband’s language for a minute or two was unrestrained. Félice listened to him with approval.
“I like to hear you swear, dear Andrew,” she confided. “It sounds so natural, and it seems to break up the clouds, but after all, this is very terrible. Do they think, these people, that I would have a lover when I have you?”
She drew him down to her.
“The thing which hurts, dear,” she continued, “is that they should doubt me for your sake. Yesterday evening, before you returned, this new man whom you had been to see—Mr. Felix Main—was here. I answered everything he asked me, although at first I did not understand, but afterwards it became very clear. Still I answered. I told him everything. I hope he believed me. I did tell him the truth. Andrew, I did want to like all your friends so much, but Sir Richard Cotton, can he be so great a friend of yours when he has started this terrible thing against us?”
“There is something greater for Cotton in the world than my friendship, or any one else’s friendship,” he reminded her, a little sadly. “He has always been the same in that one way—the most ambitious man who ever breathed. Step by step, on the bodies of those he hangs, or on the gratitude of those he saves, Dick Cotton must mount all the time. What does he care about the others? With these men their work becomes a disease. It’s all drama with them —life at second hand. They send a man to the gallows or back to the bosom of his family, and they don’t care a damn which, if it’s the way they’ve pleaded. Don’t you bother about Cotton, dear. He is trying to find out what he wants to find out, but my man Main is paid to find out the truth, and nothing else. The truth is all we want. Main will have it all clear long before Cotton can get you in the box… . Now what about a stroll down Bond Street and a little luncheon at the Ritz?”
“Listen,” she begged earnestly. “To-day—just leave me alone. You have all these horses in London. Do ride in the Park as you used to. Lunch at your club and play bridge there. Apart we may forget this thing for a little while. I think that it would be best. I wish it.”
He rose to his feet, unwilling but acquiescent.
“As a matter of fact,” he confessed, “I should rather like a ride. I’m perfectly certain I’m putting on weight up here. I’ve lots