Again his mind turned to the coming interview and its possibilities. Westralian Exploration shares—"Westrex" in the stock market lingo—were much to the fore just now. Seven geological parties were working in the tract leased by Armstrong's group, from any one of which it was rumored that an all-important cable was about to be sent, sent in some code that would protect it while on the way, and after its arrival too.
Armstrong had once told Schofild that the codes he used were based on Australian native dialects which none but Farrant and the man who sent it would have the power to read even when decoded. There was a hint abroad that the cable would be unfavorable, but there were also whispers of a remarkable bed of deposits, so the shares, though quivering, were waiting—like the speculators.
Idly Schofild wondered how much Sir Ellis Herbert, for instance, would give to read it. Herbert, the Great Basemetal Bear, as he was called, would he be at the Armstrongs' Chinese tea party this afternoon? Schofild knew all about the party. It was his business to have such things at his fingers' ends. The Armstrongs had bought the Charles Street house from Lady Nunhead on the death of her husband a few months ago, with its wonderfully fitted-up Chinese suite, and in it Mrs. Armstrong had decided to give her first reception at their new address. As to the "wedding-chest" of which Farrant had spoken, and which had been chosen by Armstrong for the place of meeting, it would evidently be easy to find. As Major Hardy had given it, it would certainly be worth seeing. Like Schofild, the great explorer and Armstrong's closest friend, went in for big things.
Schofild was at the house well before five o'clock and found a crowd. Mrs. Armstrong had been a popular girl before her marriage some ten years ago, and had never lost touch with her old world. She was a very pretty woman. Her mother, Lady Blanche Callard, had taken great care, and consulted the best publicity expert of the day to have her established as a beauty, and Phyllis had been well launched. There had even been an expectation at one time that—however, setting on one side what might have been, Boyd Armstrong was a very wealthy man, and expected to be still wealthier. Most, if not all, of the men who came today were distinctly aggrieved at his absence.
Sir Ellis Herbert was not present, Schofild noted with surprise.
"Boyd was called away unexpectedly this morning. It's a secret, of course, but it really, was a command. Something to do with Westralian Explorations," his wife murmured, with an air of imparting a confidence, "but I expect him every minute."
People looked about for Farrant. He, too, was absent, and most of the guests were trying to bet with themselves as to whether this double absence was a bull, or a bear, point. The trouble was, you could take it either way.
As for the presence of Percy Callard, that was no help. Only natural, said those who knew that Mrs. Armstrong was his sister, and did not know of the strained feelings between him and his brother-in-law.
Only a piece of his infernal cheek, said those who, like Schofild, did. As always, where he was, however, the cocktails were excellent, and Percy himself, sleek, imperturbable and good-looking, though his mouth reminded Schofild of a cat's, sauntered among the guests as though he were the master of the house. Schofild looked at his watch. Close on five o'clock.
At last the move was made for the Chinese suite. The big temple doors that led to it were flung open with a noise like a great muffled gong; tea was served in the first room for those who still cared for that old-fashioned beverage. There were some wonderful blends provided. Such Lapchang Souchong as was not to be easily matched with its true tarry flavor. Such Chang Wong as might have come from a Mandarin's plantation, with piles of almond cakes and great heaps of Gum Lu from a Chinese caterer's. Hidden behind a pair of red lacquer doors inset in the side wall of the farthest room, Chinese musicians played Chinese airs. The rooms, there were three in line, each opening out of the other, were scarlet-lacquered, with dull gold dragons half-revealed, half-dimly glimpsed over walls and ceilings. Schofild found them distinctly frightful.
Suddenly there was a little stir. Every one made way for six coolies supporting, or appearing to support, a scarlet Chinese wedding-chest, huge and handsome and wonderfully carved. Schofild looked about for the giver. Then he recollected that the Travelers was holding a great reception in honor of a returned ambassador, and that Major Hardy was to make the speech of the afternoon.
The coolies chanted as they marched. Six London actors who played their parts well. The Chinese orchestra managed to be only half a bar behind, as they finally left the chest in the center of the end wall in a place that was marked off by cords of gold and crimson stretched from gilded spears.
The head coolie stepped forward and unfastened the huge key tied by more scarlet and gold cord to the dragon handles.
Schofild looked about him. No sign of Armstrong. Mrs. Armstrong was standing just outside the gilded spears enclosure beneath a pagoda-like dovecote of inlay work which topped a jade colored column that rose high above her head. She was dressed in black, and made quite a charming figure against her gaudy surroundings. Not even a Chinese lady could be more painted, Schofild thought, nor more successful.
All around came laughter and guesses as to what was coming.
His eye was caught by a woman across the wide room who, like himself, stood near the chest. It was Lady Grail, supposed to be Mrs. Armstrong's social rival in thinking out new ideas with which to amuse people. At the moment, odd to say for her, she was neither talking nor laughing. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the chest with a look of intense anticipation. True, it was being whispered about the room that the chest contained charming little gifts for all the guests, but Lady Grail's expression was quite unlike any other of the glances around him, Schofild thought. She was a handsome woman, but at this moment she looked very ugly.
Callard was standing beside her, and suddenly Schofild saw that Percy's lips were moving, though his head was turned away from her, and though there was nothing in his lounging attitude to suggest that they were talking together. Schofild could read lips. Callard said, "Now for it!" And Lady Grail, without turning her head either, replied, "Do be more careful!" and moved away.
The Chinese orchestra ended with a last miaow as the head coolie—Mr. Buck of the Gaiety in reality—unlocked the chest, hung the key in place again, and signed to the "coolies" to lift the lid and hook it back against the wall.
Half in real curiosity, half to keep the ball rolling, every one craned forward. There came a sort of muffled gasp from the room. Mrs. Armstrong shrieked, and collapsed where she stood in a dead faint. One of the coolies nearly dropped the lid again at the thud of her fail.
Schofild had hold of it before it quite closed. In another second a dozen hands took it from him and fastened it open. Inside the great chest lay a man at full length. He was quite dead. The face was distorted in a half grin, but it was the face of Boyd Armstrong. An ugly, powerful face. The face of a man of strong passions.
Her brother carried Mrs. Armstrong out. The slender figure in its clinging draperies looked like a child in his arms. Way was made for him in a silence of quite unusual quality, then came what was practically a hubbub.
Schofild lowered the lid after touching Armstrong's cheek. "Until the police come," he murmured to Mr. Buck, then he took a step forward and raised his voice. "If there is any doctor here, will he be kind enough—?" No one stirred, so Schofild continued, "There's been an accident to Mr. Armstrong. No one should leave the house for the time being. But any one can leave these rooms, of course. In fact, I think every one should do so except you, Mr. Buck, and your assistants. I'll telephone to Scotland Yard."
"Wait a moment," came in Percy Callard's languid yet metallic voice—he had just re-entered the suite—"not quite so fast, please. It may be a case for a doctor. A fit, you know, or a stroke...or drugged. I don't know who you are," he fixed a supercilious stare on Schofild, "to be talking of bringing in the police."
Schofild mentioned his name and that he was here to keep an appointment with the man who now lay dead inside the great red chest.
"And it's not a fit, nor drugging, I'm sorry to say," Schofild went on. "Mr. Armstrong's dead.