“I ‘int at it once again,” said Frank. “Will you tell me why Black pays you two pounds a week?”
“Because he don’t,” said Willie promptly. “Because he’s a sneakin’ hook an’ because he’s a twister, because he’s a liar—”
“If there’s any reason you haven’t mentioned, give it a run,” said Constable Fellowe in the vernacular.
Willie hesitated. “What’s the good of my tellin’ you?” he asked. “Sure as death you’ll tell me ‘I’m only lyin’.”
“Try me,” said Frank, and for an hour they sat talking, policeman and thief.
At the end of that time they went different ways — Frank to the police-station, where he found an irate owner of property awaiting him, and Mr. Jakobs, thankfully, yet apprehensively, to his Somers Town home.
His business completed at the station, and a station sergeant alternately annoyed and mystified by the erratic behaviour of a plainclothes constable, who gave orders with the assurance of an Assistant-Commissioner, Frank found a taxi and drove first to the house of Black, and later (with instructions to the driver to break all the rules laid down for the regulation of traffic) to Hampstead.
May Sandford was expecting the colonel. She stood by the drawingroom fire, buttoning her glove and endeavouring to disguise her pleasure that her sometime friend had called.
“Where are you going?” was his first blunt greeting, and the girl stiffened.
“You have no right to ask in that tone,” she said quietly, “but I will tell you. I am going to dinner.”
“With whom?”
The colour came to her face, for she was really annoyed. “With Colonel Black,” she said an effort to restrain her rising anger.
He nodded. “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to go,” he said coolly.
The girl stared. “Once and for all, Mr. Fellowe,” she said with quiet dignity, “you will understand that I am my own mistress. I shall do as I please. You have no right to dictate to me — you have no right whatever” — she stamped her foot angrily— “to say what I may do and what I may not do. I shall go where and with whom I choose.”
“You will not go out tonight, at any rate,” said Frank grimly.
An angry flush came to her cheeks. “If I chose to go tonight, I should go tonight,” she said.
“Indeed, you will do nothing of the sort.” He was quite cool now — master of himself — completely under control.
“I shall be outside this house,” he said, “for the rest of the night. If you go out with this man I shall arrest you.” She started and took a step back. “I shall arrest you,” he went on determinedly. “I don’t care what happens to me afterwards. I will trump up any charge against you. I will take you to the station, through the streets, and put you in the iron dock as though you were a common thief. I’ll do it because I love you,” he said passionately, “because you are the biggest thing in the world to me — because I love you better than life, better than you can love yourself, better than any man could love you. And do you know why I will take you to the police-station?” he went on earnestly. “Because you will be safe there, and the women who look after you will allow no dog like this fellow to have communication with you — because he dare not follow you there, whatever else he dare. As for him—”
He turned savagely about as a resplendent Black entered the room. Black stopped at the sight of the other’s face and dropped his hand to his pocket.
“You look out for me,” said Frank, and Black’s face blanched.
The girl had recovered her speech. “How dare you — how dare you!” she whispered. “You tell me that you will arrest me. How dare you! And you say you love me!” she said scornfully.
He nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said, quietly enough. “I love you. I love you enough to make you hate me. Can I love you any more than that?”
His voice was bitter, and there was something of helplessness in it too, but the determination that underlay his words could not be mistaken. He did not leave her until Black had taken his leave, and in his pardonable perturbation he forgot that he intended searching the colonel for a certain green bottle with a glass stopper.
Colonel Black returned to his flat that night to find unmistakable evidence that the apartment had been most systematically searched. There existed, however, no evidence as to how his visitors had gained admission. The doors had been opened, despite the fact that they were fastened by a key which had no duplicate, and with locks that were apparently unpickable. The windows were intact, and no attempt had been made to remove money and valuables from the desk which had been ransacked. The only proof of identity they had left behind was the seal which he found attached to the blottingpad on his desk.
They had gone methodically to work, dropped a neat round splash of sealing-wax, and had as neatly pressed the seal of the organization upon it. There was no other communication, but in its very simplicity this plain “IV” was a little terrifying. It seemed that the members of the Four defied all his efforts at security, laughed to scorn his patent locks, knew more about his movements than his most intimate friends, and chose their own time for their visitations.
This would have been disconcerting to a man of less character than Black; but Black was one who had lived through a score of years — each year punctuated, at regular intervals, with threats of the most terrible character. He had ever lived in the shadow of reprisal, yet he had never suffered punishment.
It was his most fervent boast that he never lost his temper, that he never did anything in a flurry. Now, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was going to work actuated by a greater consideration than self-interest — a consideration of vengeance.
It made him less careful than he was wont to be. He did not look for shadowers that evening, yet shadowers there had been — not one but many.
Stuffing
(Edgar Wallace)
There are several people concerned in this story whom it is impossible within a limited space to describe. If you are on friendly terms with the great men of Scotland Yard you may inspect the photographs and finger-prints of two—Harry the Valet and Joe the Runner.
Lord Carfane’s picture you can see at intervals in the best of the illustrated weeklies. He was once plain Ferdie Gooberry, before he became a contractor and supplied the army with odds and ends and himself with a fortune and a barony.
In no newspaper, illustrated or otherwise, do the names of John and Angela Willett appear. Their marriage at a small registrar’s office had excited no public comment, although he was a BA of Cambridge and she was the grand-niece of Peter Elmer, the shipping magnate, who had acknowledged his relationship by dictating to her a very polite letter wishing her every happiness.
They lived in one furnished room in Pimlico, this good-looking couple, and they had the use of the kitchen. He was confident that he would one day be a great engineer. She also believed in miracles.
Three days before Christmas they sat down calmly to consider the problem of the great annual festival and how it might best be spent. Jack Willett scratched his cheek and did a lightning calculation.
‘Really, we ought not to spend an unnecessary penny,’ he said dolefully. ‘We may be a week in Montreal before I start work, and we shall need a little money for the voyage.’
They were leaving on Boxing Day for Canada; their berths had been taken. In Montreal a job was awaiting Jack in the office of an old college friend: and although twenty-five dollars per did not