It was getting close to Christmas, and Sellars had got as much
information as it was possible to obtain in the little village of
Brinkstone; in fact, his visit had been particularly fruitful, thanks
to the exhaustive knowledge and retentive memory of the useful Dobbs.
It was time to pack up, return to London, and discuss matters with Lane.

But before he left he had a further chat with the head-waiter of the
Brinkstone Arms, and this proved as valuable in its results as the
previous ones.

“You say that Miss Larchester formed no acquaintances here—that she led
an isolated life?” He put his question to the old man after pressing
into his hand a very substantial tip.

Dobbs shook his head. “A very lonely, miserable life, sir, for anybody,
more especially for such a young and attractive girl. There came just
a little break in the last year of their stay here. She then did get a
little companionship with a member of her own sex, though not quite her
own class.”

And Dobbs proceeded to relate the circumstances in his usual clear
and straightforward way. An elderly man of the name of Buckley came
to reside in Brinkstone, in a cottage just a little superior to that
rented by the Larchesters. Like the artist, he brought with him a
daughter, also, like Lettice, an only child.

He was a retired builder in a small way who, by dint of thrift and
self-denial, had accumulated enough capital to bring him in an income
sufficient for their needs, but allowing no margin for luxuries. A
plain, homely man who looked exactly what he was, a small, thrifty
tradesman with no pretensions to education or refinement, but not
aggressively common. His habits were regular; about twice a week he
looked in at the Brinkstone Arms, took a modest glass of ale, and
chatted with the landlord and the other customers. He had a nice little
piece of ground attached to his cottage, and, being passionately fond
of gardening, spent most of his time in it.

The daughter was a refined edition of her father, not a lady like
Lettice Larchester, but a very good imitation of one, and fairly well
educated. The girls soon got to know each other and quickly became
great friends, constantly in and out of each other’s houses, and taking
long walks together in the fine weather.

“It must have been a boon and a blessing to both of them, sir,”
remarked Mr. Dobbs, “for although you could see with half an eye Miss
Buckley was not of the other one’s class, she was miles above the
ordinary folk about here. And naturally there are lots of things a girl
can only talk about with another girl. Of course, Buckley was a selfish
old man or he wouldn’t have buried his daughter alive in such a place
as this. You see, he was so wrapped up in his gardening that time never
grew heavy on his hands. What with cauliflowers, peas, French beans and
the other vegetables—and he was a fine gardener—the days flew by to
him; there was always something to be looked after, always something
coming up.”

They were certainly much better off than the Larchesters. Their cottage
was quite a roomy, comfortable little dwelling, they kept a small
resident maid, and lived upon the best. Alma Buckley was a good-looking
girl, rather of the buxom and dairymaid type, and just a little bit
loud in comparison with her refined friend. But neither was in a
position to pick and choose; they had to accept what companionship came
their way, and it was fortunate they met with each other.

The Larchesters left at the end of four years; the Buckleys remained
behind. The soil suited Mr. Buckley’s gardening propensities, and so
long as he could grow excellent peas and beans he had no desire to
shift his quarters.

Six months later death claimed the old man. His demise was caused by
his devotion to his hobby. He would insist on digging the ground in a
pouring rain, with the result that he caught a violent chill, pneumonia
supervened and carried him off within the week.

As soon as he was buried the daughter shook the dust of Brinkstone off
her feet; she had been profoundly unhappy ever since the Larchesters
had left.

“She was civil enough to all the folk around, but she had made no
friend in the place except Miss Lettice,” the old man explained. “So we
didn’t hear anything of her after she left any more than we did of the
other two. But I did hear from a theatrical gentleman who stayed here
for a few days a couple of years later, and with whom I used to gossip
a bit, as I’ve done with you, sir, that there was a Miss Alma Buckley
on the stage, and from the description he gave me of her I should say
it was the same. I heard from Mr. Larchester that she was very fond of
play-acting, but that the old man was a bit strict in his notions, a
regular attendant at church and all that sort of thing, and he kept a
pretty tight hand on her.”

Sellars pigeon-holed the name in his memory. This Alma Buckley might be
useful to him if he could get hold of her. On the stage, according to
Dobbs—well, she could not be a particularly well-known actress, or he
would have heard of her, as he was a great theatre-goer. And besides,
all this happened a great many years ago; it was very unlikely she was
still pursuing her theatrical career.

“Now tell me, Dobbs, after the Larchesters left, do you know if
the friendship was kept up at all—I mean, of course, in the way of
correspondence?”

Mr. Dobbs answered this question in the affirmative. Mrs. Simpson, the
then landlady, used to chat a little with Alma Buckley when they met in
the village, and he distinctly remembered being told some three months
after the Larchesters had left, that at one of these meetings the girl
had mentioned she had heard from her friend, and that Mr. Larchester
was going from bad to worse, and that things were growing very hard for
them, in a pecuniary sense.

Sellars went back to London and, of course, paid an early visit to the
detective. It had been arranged that he should not write during his
absence, but deliver his news in one budget on his return.

“Well, you’ve got some very important information,” said Lane when the
young man had finished. “Strange that I should have been suspicious
of that nephew story almost from the beginning. Now, it is evident
there is some mystery in which both Mrs. Morrice and Sir George are
concerned, which has led them to concoct this lying tale. And this
young Brookes, if he is not the relation it is pretended he is, who
and what the deuce is he?”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” said Sellars. “This Mrs. Morrice
is evidently a queer fish, and, of course, her pretended brother-in-law
is another. I suppose Morrice really knows very little about her; they
say he married her abroad, and, of course, she could fudge up any tale,
mixing up truth and fiction as she liked.”

“And yet Morrice must be a shrewd old bird, or he wouldn’t be where he
is,” observed the detective. “You would think before he married a woman
he would have made exhaustive inquiries about her. Unless, of course,
he does know certain facts, and winks at the nephew business, thinking
it doesn’t concern anybody but themselves. But, of course, I incline
to the belief he doesn’t know. He has the highest reputation for
integrity, and it is more than improbable he would lend his countenance
to such an imposture, even if it were an innocent one, which I very
much doubt.”

“So do I,” agreed Sellars. “Now as soon as I can I will get hold of
this Alma Buckley and see if she knows anything, and if so, if she will
impart it to me. But I am not very hopeful in that quarter. It’s a
deuce of a long time ago, and she may be out of business or dead.”

“If she’s dead, of course we are done. But as long as people are alive
we can generally get at them sooner or later,” said Lane with a knowing
smile.

“I quite agree, they can’t hide themselves for long if one is
sufficiently persevering. Well, now about this Clayton-Brookes. We have
established that he is as queer a fish as Mrs. Morrice; we want to know
a good bit about him, don’t we?”

“What is the general report about him—I mean, of course, amongst the
circles in which he moves?”

Sellars paused a moment or two before he answered. He had heard a good
deal about the man, of course, but up to the present he had not taken
any particular interest in him.

“The general impression is that he is very well-off, not from his
property, because it is well-known that was so heavily encumbered by
his father that it would take more than a lifetime to redeem it. He is
supposed to have come into a fortune from a man named Clayton, whose
name he assumed, either out of compliment or because it was a condition
imposed.”

“Have you ever heard any details of this man Clayton, who was so
obliging as to leave him a fortune?”

Sellars shook his head. “None. You know how easily people swallow a
story when it is properly prepared and ladled out in a circumstantial
way. Clayton may be as much a myth as the nephew for aught we know. You
see how readily that has been accepted. You would say, at first hand,
that a man would be afraid to invent a marriage in his own family; that
there would be dozens of people who knew Archibald Brookes had no wife,
and would come forward and say so.”

“He was helped in that case by the man having cut himself adrift for
so many years, that nobody was likely to know anything about him. But
now concerning this Clayton—if we could get to know who the man was;
there is such a place as Somerset House, there are such things as wills
there. We could soon get what we wanted.”

“I’ll try my old friend at White’s,” suggested Sellars, which in a few
days he did, but not with any brilliant results. All he could learn
was that the man Clayton was a very distant connection of the Brookes
family, that he had made his money in sheep-farming in Australia.

“Obviously he knows just what Clayton-Brookes thinks it is good for him
to know,” observed the young man when he reported to Lane; “and he has
been told in order that he may communicate his knowledge to anybody who
is a bit curious. We are done, I am afraid, in that direction.”

“I agree,” was Lane’s rejoinder. “Well, the resources of civilization
are not yet exhausted, as was once remarked by a very famous man. I
must employ other methods. Now, of course, you don’t happen to know the
name of his bank?”

“No, I don’t, but I can get it like a shot. He deals with the same
bookmaker as I do, but in a much larger way. We are great pals,
my ‘bookie’ and I; I’ve done him several good turns in the way of
information about people who want to open accounts with him. He’ll tell
me for the asking.”

That was the great utility of Sellars in such a complicated business as
that of Lane’s. If he could not give you the precise information you
required, his acquaintance was so varied, his ramifications were so
wide, that he could get it for you from somebody else in a very short
time.

Within a couple of hours the detective was informed that Sir George
Clayton-Brookes banked at the Pall Mall Branch of the International
Bank.

Mr. Lane reached for his hat. “I’ll just step down to my man and put
a little inquiry through as to the gentleman’s financial status.
Fortunately for me, the sub-manager is in charge just now, and like you
and your ‘bookie,’ we are great pals. He’ll do more for me than the
manager, who is a very orthodox person and a bit of an old stick.”

The report came in double-quick time. The wealthy Sir George, who
betted high and gambled for big stakes according to general rumour,
was considered by the custodians of his money not to be good enough for
five hundred pounds.

“Another illusion shattered,” said the detective with a grim smile when
he next saw young Sellars. “This promises to be a very interesting
case. We are unearthing a few queer things, aren’t we? The Clayton
business is a myth, of course; there never was such a person, or if
there was, he never left a fortune to our friend. It is admitted that
his income from his estates is practically nil, and the evidence of
your very useful waiter confirms that. We also know that he passes off
a spurious nephew, for some sinister purpose obviously. The man is a
‘wrong-un’ and lives by his wits, that is pretty evident.”

Sellars could not help laughing. It was a bit comical to find that the
magnificent Sir George was not good enough for five hundred pounds.
Sellars’ bankers would have given him a reference for that amount, and
he lived by his wits too. But then it was in a respectable way, and he
did not invent spurious relations.

“I think we had better set about old Morrice himself next,” he said.
“What’s the odds on finding something fishy about him, in spite of his
high reputation?”

Lane smiled. “By gad, when you’ve been in this line as long as I have,
I’m hanged if you’ve got much belief left in anybody. It is marvellous
the queer things we do unearth, many of them of little actual
importance to the case, when we once start a long investigation.”

“Well, what’s the next move on the board?” queried his colleague. He
began to feel great interest in the Morrice mystery; if it went on as
it had begun, there promised to be some surprising developments.

He was not so astonished about Sir George. He was not popular, partly,
perhaps, on account of the wildness of his youth, and Sellars himself
had been repelled by the man; he had always thought there was something
a little sinister about him.

But the discovery that Mrs. Morrice, that pleasant, gracious woman who
made such an admirable hostess in the big house in Deanery Street,
was a party to such an extraordinary fraud, had fairly taken his
breath away. He recalled the old waiter’s admiration for her as a
girl, of his pity for her lonely life, his disgust with her soddened
father. She must have changed very much from the girl who lived in the
little village of Brinkstone and ate her heart out in these sordid
surroundings.

“I hardly quite know,” was Lane’s answer to the question put by his
young lieutenant. “I want thoroughly to digest all that very important
information you got for me, and make up my mind as to how we are going
to utilize it. But certainly one of the first steps is to discover
who this so-called Archie Brookes really is. It only wants two days
to Christmas; I’m not going to work on it any more till after the
holidays. Then you’ll try to get into touch, if possible, with this
woman Alma Buckley, who is a very strong link with Mrs. Morrice’s past.”

Lane was spending his Christmas in the bosom of his family. Sellars, as
became a young man of his position, was due at a smart country house.
They would meet in the New Year.

Richard Croxton passed the festive season with his kind old nurse.
Rosabelle kept up a smiling face that hid a very aching heart in
Switzerland. It was not a cheerful Christmas for any member of the
Morrice family; they missed greatly the familiar figure that had been
with them for years.

CHAPTER X

THE SAFE IS ROBBED AGAIN

In the New Year, Sellars, having spent a most enjoyable Christmas, and
fortified both in spirits and body by the season’s jollity and good
cheer, set to work to discover whether Miss Alma Buckley was still in
the land of the living, and if so, where she was to be found.

It has been said that nobody knew better how to set about getting
information that he was in need of than this agreeable young
man-about-town, who had never been credited by his ordinary
acquaintances with ability beyond the average.

Amongst his various clubs was a very unpretentious and Bohemian one
called “The Strollers.” As its name implied, its members were mainly
recruited from the theatrical profession, but it also admitted within
its portals musicians, artists, journalists, authors, and a few people
who were great admirers of the arts but did not practise any of them
as a means of livelihood. If Miss Alma Buckley was still in the
profession, he would find somebody here who knew her, or at any rate
knew of her.

We know that, strictly speaking, his proper _milieu_ was the
fashionable world, his proper place for relaxation a club like White’s
or Boodles’; but he was a young man of catholic tastes, and he was
also entitled to call himself a journalist, if his activities in that
profession were not very great. He was also very fond of people who
“did something,” whether in music or art or literature. Therefore “The
Strollers” suited him very well when he got a bit bored with exclusive
society, and the rather banal talk of fashionable and semi-fashionable
people.

The subscription was very moderate, the entrance fee equally
reasonable; he met there men who could talk well, a few quite
brilliantly. Once a week during certain seasons they held an
entertainment at which there was quite a respectable array of talent.
To this very delightful little place he repaired one evening in search
of information about Miss Alma Buckley.

He inquired of two theatrical members, not of the very highest rank
in their profession, but neither of these gentlemen had ever heard of
the lady in question. They suggested that she might probably be on the
provincial stage.

The third time, however, he was more lucky. He came across a rather
well-known music-hall artist, one Tom Codlin, who reddened his nose and
leaned decidedly to the vulgar side on the boards, but who was a very
quiet, decorous fellow off. He knew the name at once.

“Alma Buckley, of course, known her since I first took up the business;
must be a good ten years older than I am, I should say, makes up
wonderfully, too. Saw her a few months ago in one of the Stein shows,
and I was surprised to see how well she wore. No particular talent, no
particular line, but generally gets an engagement, even when cleverer
people are out.”

“Has she ever been on the stage, the real stage, I mean?” asked young
Sellars. Mr. Codlin shook his head.

“Never. She started in the halls when quite a young girl and has stuck
there ever since.”

“Do you know if she’s playing now, and if so, where?”

Codlin had no idea; he had not seen her name for some time in any of
the bills. She might be in the provinces, she might have gone for a
tour abroad.

He thought a moment, and then added: “The best thing you can do if you
want to get hold of her is to go to her agent, ‘Mossy’ Samuelson, as we
call him. I’ll scribble his address on my card; he knows me well. That
will get you the _entrée_ at once, for he’s an awfully busy chap, and
if he doesn’t know you, will keep you waiting for hours.”

The next day found Sellars presenting his club friend’s card to a
small, sharp-looking boy in the rather dingy front room of a house
in a street off the Strand. A communicating door led to Mr. “Mossy”
Samuelson’s private sanctum, where he received his clients. A lot of
women, mostly young, but a few middle-aged, were waiting to see the
great man. Sellars thought that if all these people had to go in before
him he would have to wait for hours. He did not of course know the ways
of busy theatrical agents, that they do not see half the people who are
waiting for an audience, only come out and dismiss most of them with a
brief “Nothing for you to-day.”

“Tell him I won’t keep him a minute,” he whispered to the sharp-looking
boy, slipping half a crown into his rather grubby but appreciative palm.

Mr. Codlin’s card had a magical effect. In less than a minute the boy
appeared in the opening of the doorway and beckoned him in. A gentleman
with a pronounced Hebraic aspect sat in solemn state at a big table,
wearing the shiniest tall hat that Sellars had ever seen on a human
head. He doffed this resplendent article when he observed the young man
remove his own.

“Good-morning, sir; good-morning. Sorry I can’t give you more than a
minute or two. I’ve got three contracts to draw before one o’clock, and
there’s half the music-hall profession waiting in the other room to see
me. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Codlin’s card, couldn’t have given you a
second.”

In view of Mr. Samuelson’s evident importance, Sellars adopted a most
respectful tone. “Very kind of you, sir, very kind indeed. I will come
to the point at once. You are the agent of Miss Alma Buckley, I am
told.”

“I am, sir; been her agent for the last twenty years. What can I do for
you?”

“I want to see the lady on some private and important business. You
could not, of course, give me her address?”

“We never give addresses of our clients; clean against the rules, sir.”
The little, keen, beady eyes looked at him inquiringly. The young man
belonged to White’s Club and looked what Mr. Samuelson would describe
in his own words, “a toff.” What could such a person want with a
middle-aged, undistinguished music-hall artist?

“I quite appreciate that, Mr. Samuelson. Would you be good enough to
forward a letter for me?”

“Very ’appy, sir,” replied the Hebraic gentleman affably. “But it’s no
good your sending it yet. Miss Buckley is returning from South Africa;
at this moment she’s on the ocean, and she’s not due in London for
another ten days. Send it then, and I will take care it reaches her.
Good-morning, sir; ’appy to have met you.”

He held out a podgy hand, and the interview terminated. It was a bit of
a check, this waiting for ten days, for Sellars was getting very keen
on the Morrice case. But there was no help for it, and it was always on
the cards that Miss Buckley might refuse to receive him, or if she did,
might decline to give information about her old friend.

Rosabelle returned to London with her uncle and aunt, very glad to get
home again. Under ordinary conditions she would have enjoyed herself
hugely at Mürren, for she was a thorough open-air girl, and delighted
in every form of sport. But the sight of other people’s gaiety made
her sad when she was so miserable herself. Mrs. Morrice, too, seemed
very unhappy and restless during what should have been such a festive
season. Rosabelle thought that Mrs. Morrice must have been fonder of
Richard than she had believed.

The first visit she paid, even before she went to see her lover, was to
the offices of Gideon Lane. This man, with his strong resolute face, was
her only hope; she had longed to be back in London so that she might be
near him; his propinquity to her gave her a sense of comfort.

“I don’t want to make myself a nuisance, Mr. Lane, but I simply could
not keep away,” she explained by way of greeting. “You have not been
idle during our absence, I am sure. Are you any nearer to discovering
the true criminal? Have you found out anything at all?”

It was an awkward question for the detective to reply to. A very great
deal had been discovered during the time that had elapsed between her
departure for Mürren and her return to London; startling facts at
present known only to himself and Sellars.

If she had been a hard-headed practical man instead of an emotional
girl wrought up to a pitch of almost unendurable tension by the serious
plight of her lover, he might have been disposed to make a clean
breast of it. But for the moment he dared not trust her. Guided by her
feelings, she might act impulsively and spoil all his plans.

“I will be frank with you, Miss Sheldon, as far as I can be, as I
dare be, at this juncture. Certain things have been discovered of
considerable importance. What they are, the precise nature of them,
even a hint, I dare not indulge in for the present, not until I know
much more.”

She knew the man well by now; it was useless to attempt to shake his
determination. When he had once made up his mind, it was like beating
against an open door.

“Will you at least tell me this, to ease my suspense,” she said at
length. “What you have discovered so far, does it tell against or in
favour of Mr. Croxton?”

There was a perceptible pause before he answered. Caution was so
ingrained in the man, his habit of carefully weighing every word, his
dread of expressing an opinion before he was fully justified, had
become so deeply rooted that he could hardly ever exhibit complete
frankness. Optimism was, of course, a mood unknown to him.

“If certain nebulous suspicions which are slowly forming in my mind
turn out to be correct, the result of my discoveries, so far, is rather
in favour of Mr. Croxton.”

That was all she could get out of him for the present, all she would,
in all probability, ever get out of him till he had fully and finally
solved the Morrice mystery. It was not great comfort, but it was better
than nothing.

The next day she went to Petersham, and received a warm welcome from
her lover, whose heart had been aching for her during those weary days
of separation. Small as were the crumbs of comfort which Lane had given
her, she made the most of them, and heartened Dick considerably by her
assurance that all would come right in the end.

“There are things about the man that irritate me—just an impulsive
woman with more heart than head—his slowness, his caution, his dislike
to speak positively; but I do believe in him, in his capacity, his
ability. If the mystery is to be solved by human agency, I am convinced
he will solve it.”

The lovers had a fairly happy day, considering the depressing
circumstances. They took a long walk through busy Kingston, over the
Thames glistening in the winter sunshine, to Hampton Court, where they
had lunch at that best of old-fashioned hotels, the Mitre. They got
back to Petersham late in the afternoon, and Richard’s kindly old nurse
had a dainty tea ready for them. And too soon the hour of parting came
and her lover put her in a taxi and kissed her fervently as they said
good-bye.

“God bless you, my darling; need I tell you how I appreciate your faith
in me? But for your visits, and I count the hours till you come, I
think I should go mad. And yet I must not reckon on them. One day your
uncle will forbid them.”

The steadfast girl smiled bravely. “We will talk of that when the time
comes, my poor old boy.”

She returned his fond caress. “Remember, Dick, whether Lane succeeds or
fails, it will make no difference to me. We are sweethearts now, and we
are going to be sweethearts till the end.”

During her long absence startling events had happened in the big,
old-fashioned house in Deanery Street.

Gideon Lane had spent a busy morning away from his office. It was three
o’clock before he found time to snatch a hasty lunch. When he got back
it was close upon four. His clerk had an urgent message for him.

“Mr. Morrice of Deanery Street has rung up three times during your
absence, sir. The last time he left word for you to go round as soon as
you came in. He said it was of the utmost importance.”

A taxi soon conveyed the detective to the financier’s house. He found
Morrice in his room in a great state of anger and excitement.

“Another robbery, Mr. Lane, this time a small one. A bundle of
Treasury notes and a quantity of Swiss bank-notes have been abstracted,
to the value of two hundred and eighty pounds. This time I am
determined to get to the bottom of it. If you are agreeable, you shall
act for me as well as for the other parties. You have no objection to
that, I suppose?”

Lane bowed. “None at all, sir. Whoever employs me does so with the same
object—to bring home the guilt to the right person.”

There were finger-marks on the safe as before. These were duly
photographed. They were identical with the previous ones, those of the
expert safe-breaker known as “Tubby” Thomas.

_And “Tubby” Thomas, as they knew beyond the possibility of doubt, was
safely locked up in Dartmoor._

CHAPTER XI

A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS

Could there be two men the whorls of whose fingers were the same?
Scotland Yard says impossible.

“I do not question that this is a very wonderful safe, Mr. Morrice,”
the detective remarked quietly to the financier in a subsequent
conversation, “but it is evidently not as invulnerable as you and the
makers thought it.”

“Once know the secret of its mechanism, and the rest is easy,” retorted
Morrice, a little nettled at this depreciatory reference to the
wonderful invention, to the perfecting of which he had contributed not
a little himself with his own ingenious suggestions.

He explained to Lane a few of its marvels. To begin with, it was
the only safe of its kind that had ever been manufactured. The
combinations of the times when it would open would run into millions.
Supposing you worked on tens, for instance, that is ten, twenty,
thirty, the days of the month, it would only open if both keys were
applied to the same keyhole!

The detective listened politely, but he was not very interested in
learning how the thing worked; his object was to find out if there was
anybody besides young Croxton and his employer who could have become
acquainted with the secret of its working.

“It seems to me that it is really a matter of exercising ordinary
common-sense,” observed the angry banker. “Two men alone know the
secret, myself and Richard Croxton, therefore either of us could open
it after having obtained surreptitiously a duplicate of the key held by
the other. Let us assume, for a moment that you, acting on Croxton’s
behalf, say that I was the thief, that from some sinister motive
I stole my own property. Well, you are perfectly entitled to that
opinion, as an opinion.”

“I have not expressed it,” said the detective quietly.

“I know you haven’t,” snapped Morrice. He was in a very angry mood
to-day, and inclined to let his temper run away with him. “But I also
know that gentlemen of your profession cast your net wide when you
start, in the hope of catching some very unlikely fish. Of course, I
could have opened it and cast it upon Croxton, if I were so disposed.
But where is my motive for robbing myself? I can understand certain
circumstances which might induce a man to commit such an act, and
cleverly provide a scapegoat. Men set fire to their own warehouses
to get the insurance money. Why? Because they are on the verge of
bankruptcy and that money will save them. A desperate man might steal
his own money for similar reasons, to place it beyond the reach of his
creditors, so that he should not go forth to the world a beggar. But
these motives are absent in my own case. I am more than solvent; I
don’t wish to speak in any boasting spirit, but I have more money than
I know what to do with.”

Lane thought for such a practical man of the world, and possessing,
as he did, such a clear logical brain, he was indulging in rather
superfluous observations. Besides, he had referred to one aspect
of the situation as it affected himself—the absence of financial
embarrassment. If one chose to argue with him, one could cite from
the annals of crime instances of more than one other motive that had
impelled men to commit crimes which they artfully fixed upon innocent
persons, whom for some subtle reason they wished to remove from their
path, or on whom they desired revenge.

The next words, however, showed why the banker had volunteered such an
elaborate defence of himself.

“I am therefore eliminated, at any rate to my own satisfaction.” His
tone was still angry, as if he inwardly resented Lane’s rather lukewarm
attitude. “There is only left this young man whom I have treated as a
son, whom I have loaded with benefits, whom I have preserved from the
consequences of his criminal acts, his dastardly ingratitude to me.
He alone, beyond myself, knew the secret of this safe’s mechanism,
therefore he alone could open it, unless, which of course is possible,
he employed a confederate whom he took into his confidence. Is that
common-sense or not, Mr. Lane?” he concluded in a slightly calmer tone.

“Perfectly common-sense so far as it carries us, Mr. Morrice,” was the
detective’s judicial reply.

“So far as it carries us,” cried Morrice with a slight return of his
previous explosive manner. “I do not understand you.”

Lane smiled. It was a slightly superior smile, prompted by the thought
that these clever business men, excellent and keen as they were in
their own pursuits, did not exhibit that logical mind which is the
great equipment of a trained investigator.

“By that expression I mean simply this, that when you definitely assume
Mr. Croxton’s guilt you are acting on the presumption that nobody but
you and he knows the secret of this mechanism. Can you prove that?”

“Of course I can’t prove it in a way that might satisfy you, but I
do know that I have never told anybody else. There is of course the
maker,” he added sarcastically. “Perhaps you are including him in your
calculations.”

“I think I will consent readily to his elimination,” replied Lane in
his quiet, not unhumorous way. “Now, Mr. Morrice, we will discuss this
matter without heat. I am now employed by you as well as Mr. Croxton,
and I have only one object in view. But I must conduct my investigation
in my own way, and I want to go a little deeper than we have yet gone.”

Morrice was impressed by the grave authoritative manner of the man;
he showed a strong touch of that quality which we notice in eminent
judges, successful barristers and all properly qualified members of
the legal profession, a patient pursuit of facts, a strongly developed
power of deduction from whatever facts are presented, a keen faculty of
analysis.

“Now, Mr. Morrice, I shall ask you a question or two for my own
enlightenment. From the little you have explained to me, the mechanism
of this safe is extremely complicated. Did you and Mr. Croxton carry
all the details of it in your heads, or had you some written memorandum
of its working to refer to in case of a temporary lapse of memory?”

Morrice was quick enough immediately to see the drift of that question,
and his manner changed at once. “Thank you for that suggestion, Mr.
Lane; I fear I have shown a little impatience. For all practical
purposes, we did carry it in our heads, but I have in my possession,
as you surmise, a written key to which reference could be made in the
event of our requiring an elaborate combination.”

“And that key is still in your possession?”

“Yes. I keep it in the safe in my dressing-room. I looked this morning,
and it was there.”

The detective ruminated over this latest piece of information. While he
was doing so, Morrice spoke again, with just a little hesitation, as
if he knew that what he was going to say would cut the ground a little
from under his strongly expressed theory of Croxton’s guilt.

“You ought to know the whole truth, Mr. Lane, and you shall have it
for what it is worth. This present memorandum—I will speak of it by
that name—is one that I wrote out from memory. I had an original one,
perhaps just a trifle fuller, but I lost it, that is to say I could not
find it amongst my papers, some two years ago.”

Still clinging obstinately to his theory, he added a few comments
which, needless to say, did not make much impression on his listener,
who went into possibilities and probabilities perhaps just a trifle too
elaborately for the ordinary man.

“You know how easily papers get lost or mislaid. It is as likely as
not that the original memorandum will turn up in the last place I
should expect to find it. And if it got loose and was swept up by some
careless servant, it would get into the hands of the dustman. To the
ordinary person it would, of course, be quite unintelligible.”

To this Lane simply remarked that when a paper of importance had
disappeared it was quite impossible to prophesy into whose hands it
would fall. The dustman was a comforting theory, but it was no part
of his business to adopt comforting theories that did away with the
necessity to think. If “Tubby” Thomas had not been safely locked up
at Dartmoor for the last two years, he would have been pretty certain
that by some felonious means it had come into the possession of that
accomplished safe-breaker.

His position had changed since Mr. Morrice had summoned him to Deanery
Street on the occasion of the second burglary. He was now representing
the financier as well as Richard Croxton. In a way he was glad, for
Richard Croxton was poor according to Rosabelle, and this promised to
be an expensive investigation. To Morrice money did not matter; he
would not be stopped from ascertaining the truth by lack of funds.

But in another way it was awkward. They had already found out about
Mrs. Morrice that, in conjunction with Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the
supposed wealthy baronet, she was passing off as her nephew a young man
who had no claim to the title. In course of time Morrice would have
to be acquainted with that suspicious fact, and whatever degree of
affection the banker felt for his wife, whether he loved her very much
or hardly at all, it would be a terrible blow to him, either to his
love or pride, or both.

Lane had a long talk with Sellars over the latest development of the
Morrice mystery. The young man strongly maintained that it greatly
strengthened the presumption of Croxton’s innocence, and although the
detective, with his usual habit of caution, did not take quite such a
decided view as his more impetuous lieutenant, he readily admitted
that it told in his favour, that any man possessing the legal mind must
concede as much.

“The more I can find out about him and his habits,” Sellars remarked,
“the more it seems unlikely, although not, of course, impossible, that
he should have done this thing. As far as I can learn, he has been in
love with Miss Sheldon for years, and his life has simply been bound up
with the Morrice family. They entertained very largely, and he always
showed up at their entertainments, was at every dinner-party they
gave, just like a son of the house. He seems to have very few young
men friends, but they are all of a most respectable type. He doesn’t
gamble, he doesn’t drink. Other women don’t come into the case, for he
is hardly ever a yard away from his lady-love. Does he seem the kind
of man to get himself into a hole out of which he can only extricate
himself by robbery?”

And Lane was forced to agree that if the good report of one’s
fellows could establish innocence, young Richard Croxton was already
satisfactorily whitewashed. But of course, in the opinion of this
eminent practitioner, all this was negative evidence, not positive.

Rosabelle, who was duly informed of the loss of the original
memorandum—for Lane was at bottom a very kind-hearted man and thought
he could give the harassed girl this crumb of comfort without
jeopardizing his future action—was very jubilant. She was also
pleased that her uncle had appointed the detective to prosecute his
investigations on his behalf. It would mean that Lane would not be
hampered for money.

She went over to Petersham the next day to tell her lover what had
happened, and succeeded in infecting him with her own hopeful spirit.

“And is Mr. Morrice still as bitter against me as ever, does he still
believe as firmly in my guilt?”

Rosabelle was not very sure of the financier’s real thoughts, but she
gave the best answer she could.

“You know, my dear old Dick, how obstinately he clings to an idea when
he has once taken it into his head, but I fancy he is a bit shaken.”

CHAPTER XII

SIR GEORGE’S VALET

In a back street behind the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly there is a
small, quiet-looking public-house which is a great rendezvous for male
servants of a superior class. Thither in their leisure moments repair
chauffeurs, butlers, valets in good service, to take a moderate amount
of refreshment—such men seldom drink to excess—to chat over the news of
the day, and very frequently to comment to each other on the characters
and doings of their employers.

On the evening following the day on which Lane had held that long
conversation with Mr. Morrice recorded in the last chapter, two men
sat in a corner of the snug little bar, drinking whisky and soda and
talking together in confidential tones.

The one party to the conversation had “gentleman’s gentleman” written
all over his manner and appearance. The deferential voice, the trick of
lowering his eyes when he spoke, proclaimed the valet who had served
in good families. He had not the smug pomposity of the butler nor the
breezy open-air demeanour of the driver.

His companion was no other than our old friend the detective, who did
not, like his companion, exhibit any signs of his calling, as far as
appearance went; he might have been anything—respectable bookmaker,
prosperous commercial traveller, well-to-do shopkeeper, whatever you
pleased.

In the pursuit of his professional duties Lane penetrated into several
circles, outside the higher ones. These he left to Sellars principally,
although he had two other occasional assistants of the same class, but
less zealous and capable. His object in coming to this quiet little
place to-night was to extend his acquaintance, one formed a few nights
previously, with the man who was drinking now at his expense, who
rejoiced in the popular name of Simmons and was valet to Sir George
Clayton-Brookes.

Lane was speaking in answer to some remarks just brought to a
conclusion by the valet with the neat, respectable appearance and the
low, deferential voice.

“And so you think of shifting. Well, it’s no use staying in a place
that doesn’t square with your ideas of comfort.”

“That’s just it, Mr. Cox.” The detective had assumed this name for the
purposes of the temporary friendship. “I knew after the first fortnight
it wouldn’t suit me at all. But I’ve stayed nine months for reasons. It
doesn’t do for a man with my record in good families to go chopping and
changing every five minutes, it gets him a bad name.”

Lane signified his approval of this politic conduct, and noting that
the valet’s glass was empty, hastened to have it refilled, a proceeding
to which Mr. Simmons offered no objection. With his shrewd knowledge
of men, his habit of drawing conclusions from small but infallible
signs, the detective inclined to the belief that his new friend was an
acquisitive kind of fellow, a man who would take all he could get and
give as little as he could in return.

“Your health, Mr. Cox.” The man lifted his glass and looked
appreciatively at his host, while he gave utterance to further thoughts
of his master.

“I don’t say Sir George isn’t all right in the matter of family,
although of course we know they’ve come down through his old father
playing ducks and drakes with the property. But the truth is, a poor
place doesn’t suit a man at my time of life, forty-five last birthday.
Wages are nothing; it’s the pickings that enable a fellow to put by and
start a snug little place of his own to keep him in his old age.”

A poor place, an absence of “pickings”! This confirmed the banker’s
report. As a matter of fact, Lane did not want the banker’s report
confirmed, he could rely on it as far as it went. He was on a much
deeper game, and with that object he had sought the society of Mr.
Simmons in the hope of finding him the sort of person who would help
him to play it.

“Now, that’s rather funny,” he said in assumed surprise. “I’ve heard a
good deal about Sir George, one way and another, and I was always under
the impression he was a wealthy man, had come into a large fortune.”

Mr. Simmons gave a contemptuous sniff. “If he came into a large
fortune, and I think I’ve heard something of that tale myself, it was
before my time. I’ll bet he hasn’t got any of it left now. I tell you
what he does, Mr. Cox, he bluffs a lot, he makes out to most of his
acquaintances that he’s got tons of money, and, of course, several of
them take his word. I’ve heard him putting the pot on often myself when
he didn’t know I was listening.”

An eavesdropper, this quiet, respectable-looking man! If he had the
smaller infirmities, he would be pretty certain to have the bigger
ones. Such was the thought of the shrewd detective.

“But I’ve always heard he bets high, Mr. Simmons.”

The valet, warmed by his potations, gave another sniff of contempt.
“Not he; that’s where he bluffs again. I know it for a fact. I
overheard him one morning put a fiver on a horse over the telephone;
it won at six to one. That same evening, when I was bringing in the
whisky, he told a pal of his right before me he’d laid a hundred. Of
course, he didn’t know I’d heard him in the morning. That’s how he got
the reputation of wealth, by bluffing, gassing and lying.”

It was clear that Simmons hated his employer with the deadly rancour
of a man deprived of his legitimate “pickings,” for he proceeded to
further disclosures, not at all redounding to Sir George’s credit.

He emitted a sardonic chuckle. “I overheard a little conversation
between him and that precious nephew of his one day, and I soon put
the pieces together, though I wasn’t in at the beginning of it. It
seems Sir George had changed a cheque for thirty pounds at one of his
clubs, in the expectation of some money coming in the next day. Well,
the money hadn’t come in, and he was in a frightful stew. ‘If I can’t
pay-in the first thing to-morrow morning, I’m done, and I shall be had
up before the Committee. The bank won’t let me overdraw five pounds;
the manager refused me a week ago when I begged the favour of him.’
That’s your wealthy man. Bah! I’m a poor chap enough, but I believe I
could buy him up if he was for sale.”

Lane shrugged his shoulders. “If you weren’t in the know you’d hardly
credit it, would you, Mr. Simmons?”

“By George, he was in a stew. I remember his words to his nephew; he
almost screamed them; ‘Archie, old boy, you must stand by me, you must
get me that money this afternoon, or it’s all up with me.’ Queer sort
of thing to say, wasn’t it, Mr. Cox.”

“Very queer,” agreed the detective. “Did you hear young Brookes’s
reply? I take it you were listening outside the door.”

“I was,” admitted Mr. Simmons, quite unabashed. It was evident he was
a very curious sort of person, and spent a considerable portion of his
time eavesdropping. “Young Archie was talking extremely low, and I
couldn’t catch very distinctly what he said. But there was a bit of an
argument between the two. I thought I caught the words, ‘it’s so soon
after the other,’ and then Sir George almost screamed out again, ‘I
can’t help that; I tell you it’s got to be done.’”

“An interesting couple,” remarked the supposed Mr. Cox. He was quite
sure now of the kind of man Mr. Simmons was. Should he approach him
at once or cultivate him a little further before he did so? Being a
cautious man and disinclined to do things in a hurry, he chose the
waiting policy. So he asked the valet when he would be likely to meet
him there again, at the same time proffering another whisky.

“To tell the truth, Mr. Cox, I shall be here for the next three
evenings. A bit of luck has come my way. Sir George is going into the
country to-morrow morning, and won’t be back till Friday. He isn’t
taking me with him, and I don’t know where’s he’s going. No letters or
telegrams are to be forwarded.”

“A bit queer he doesn’t want his valet with him, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” replied Mr. Simmons with a knowing expression. “A very
dark horse is our respected and wealthy baronet! If he’s going to a
swagger country house he takes me fast enough. But it’s not the first
time by half a dozen that he’s sloped off like this by himself. He’s
after something that he doesn’t want anybody else to know about, you
bet. A very queer fish, Mr. Cox.”

So Sir George would be away for a few days; that would just suit Lane’s
plans. He must open the campaign with the not too scrupulous valet as
soon as possible, but not to-night.

“Look out for me to-morrow evening then, Mr. Simmons. I like this
little place, it’s very snug and quiet, and I have very much enjoyed my
chats with you. Good-night. Sure you won’t have another before you go?”
But the acquisitive valet had that delicacy in him that he declined
further hospitality; he had already done himself very well at his
companion’s expense, and was perhaps fearful of trespassing too greatly
on his good nature.

The next evening they were again in their quiet corner, and Lane opened
the ball a few minutes after they had exchanged greetings.

“Now, Mr. Simmons, I am going to be quite frank with you. I didn’t come
here by accident. I got to know—it doesn’t matter how—that you were Sir
George’s valet, that you frequented this place. If you are so inclined,
you are just the man to give me help in a little job I’m after. I’m a
detective by profession; here is my card with my name and address. If
you have any doubts about the truth of my assertion, I will take you
down to Shaftesbury Avenue now and convince you by ocular proof.”

Mr. Simmons scrutinized the card carefully; he was a shrewd and wary
fellow, and not one to be easily taken in.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Cox, or rather Mr. Lane, to give you your
true name, I had a sort of suspicion all along that you were a ’tec and
wanted something out of me. I’ve never seen you in this place before,
and you’ve given me a lot of drinks and wouldn’t take one back. Now,
sir, if I may speak without offence, a man who meets a stranger doesn’t
do all the paying without a motive. Well, sir, let’s come to business.
What can I do for you—of course, with safety to myself, and if I do it,
what do I get out of it?”

A business-like fellow, a bit of a rogue, in a noncriminal way no
doubt! But it was always easier to deal with a rogue than a fool in
matters of this kind. There would be no beating about the bush.

Lane briefly explained what he wanted. He wished to examine Sir
George’s pass-book; if that was not available, his paying-in slips. Did
the valet know where he kept them?

Yes, Mr. Simmons did know. Sir George was in the habit of getting his
book every month from the bank, and after examining it, returning it
in about three weeks to be made up for the following month. He kept it
with his cheque-book and the paying-in slips in one of the top drawers
of his writing-table. Sometimes the drawer was locked, more frequently
not, for in some matters where the vast majority of men were cautious,
the mysterious baronet was singularly careless. At the present moment
Mr. Simmons did not know whether it was locked or not, but it would
probably be locked before he went away.

“That doesn’t present much difficulty,” said Lane with a calmness that
took away his companion’s breath. “If it is not a very complicated
lock, and it’s not likely to be if the writing-table is an ordinary
sort of one; I can easily pick it.”

Mr. Simmons pursed his lips in perplexity. “But that’s burglary, isn’t
it, and spells quod if were caught?”

The detective smiled. “’Pon my soul, I’m not very sure. We have to do
this sort of thing sometimes, but we don’t run any very great risk,
because the people we do it to have so much to conceal that they
daren’t take action. I’m not proposing to take away anything, you
know.”

But Mr. Simmons evidently did not like the prospect. He was perfectly
unscrupulous in a small way, would not have objected to certain petty
pilferings sanctioned by custom and tradition amongst certain members
of his profession. One of his grievances against the baronet was that
he counted his cigars and his bottles of wine; there was never a chance
of getting a free smoke or drink.

But this looked a bigger thing than he expected. He thought very
deeply for a few seconds, while Lane cursed him in his heart for a
faint-hearted rogue, who let his inclination wait upon his fears.

“Look here,” he said at length. “We haven’t said anything yet about
terms. If I do it—and mind you, I’m not very gone on it—what’s the
price? It ought to be a good one.”

Lane named a liberal sum, and, truth to tell, it did make the valet’s
mouth water, but he was a greedy fellow, and he was determined to try
for a bit more. So for a few minutes they haggled till a compromise was
effected. But still Simmons was torn in two between his greed and his
fear of detection and would not say positively that he would assist.

The detective was a man of resource, he saw that he must adopt
different tactics with this cowardly rogue and relieve him from his
apprehensions.

“Look here, my friend, I can see you are in a blue funk; you are
afraid of what I am certain won’t happen, that Sir George will return
unexpectedly, walk into his flat and find me at work. Of course, he has
got his key.”

Mr. Simmons wanted to get that money in his possession, and his greed
sharpened his wits.

“Yes, he has got his key; he always carries it with him. But I could
put the inside latch up, making some plausible excuse for doing so,
and while I was going to the door you could put things straight and
escape into my room, hide there and be smuggled out as soon as we got a
chance. What do you think of that?”

“Quite ingenious,” was the approving answer. No doubt the fellow would
have developed a very pretty talent in the domain of “crookdom” if he
had been properly trained by a qualified professor.

“Quite ingenious,” repeated Lane; “but I think I can manage it in a way
that will avert any danger from yourself if accidents should happen.
Now here is my plan. I will explain it as briefly as possible. You
won’t appear in the matter at all.”

Mr. Simmons heaved a sigh of relief. He looked at his new friend with
an air of admiration; he felt he was in the presence of a master mind.

The detective lucidly explained his scheme. “You meet me at the bottom
of the street to-morrow evening at seven o’clock, and hand me the key
of the flat. You come on here, I join you in five minutes; we have met
here as usual for a chat. I’m in a hurry; I stay with you a quarter of
an hour, then hasten off on the plea of having to attend to some urgent
business. I go on to the flat, take care that nobody is about, put the
key in the door, enter Sir George’s room and do my business. You will
sit here for an hour with your pals, then you will leave and meet me,
say, in the buffet of Victoria Station, when I will hand you back your
key.”

“It sounds all right,” said Mr. Simmons, still speaking dubiously.
“But what happens if Sir George ‘cops’ you, and you can’t meet me at
Victoria?”

“I’m coming to that, although there’s not the smallest probability
that Sir George will ‘cop’ me. If he does, I think I shall have
to say something to him that will prevent him from giving me in
charge. But whatever happens, all that can be proved against you is
indiscretion—mind you, rather unpardonable in a man of your years, but
still only indiscretion. So you tumble to it now?”

“I think I’m getting an inkling; but you might explain it fully. You
are a clever chap, and you make things seem so clear.”

“You met a very plausible stranger in a certain pub. Give the name
to show good faith. Your friends can prove they have seen us talking
together. You got rather pals; he stood you a lot of drinks. On this
particular evening he gave you a little too much, perhaps put something
in it to make you stupid, and while you were losing your wits, picked
your pocket of the key and rushed round to the flat, leaving you to
recover yourself. So remember, after I leave you to-morrow evening, to
be a little foolish in your manner for half an hour or so.”

“Excellent,” cried Mr. Simmons in genuine admiration. “By jingo, you
are a knock-out; you think of everything. To-morrow evening, just at
the bottom of the street; afterwards here. Now, what do you think of
something on account—say a ‘tenner.’”

“I don’t mind a ‘fiver,’” was Lane’s answer; he was not disposed to
trust the valet too much. If he got as much as ten pounds safely into
his hands he might back out at the last moment and leave the detective
in the lurch. “I won’t give it you before all these people; you never
know who’s looking. We’ll leave here in about half an hour, and I’ll
hand it over when we’re safe out of the street.”

About eleven o’clock the next morning he received a further surprise in
connection with this most puzzling case. A note was sent round to him
from Mr. Morrice:

 “DEAR SIR,—Another development! On opening my safe this morning I
 found that the packet of papers abstracted in the first robbery has
 been put back, also the bundle of Swiss notes. I suppose the thief
 found they were of no use to him and obligingly returned them. Come
 round as soon as you can. I shall be in all day.

  “Yours faithfully,

  “RUPERT MORRICE.”

CHAPTER XIII

AUNT AND “NEPHEW”!

There was not very much to discuss when Lane did get to Deanery Street.
Certain inexplicable things had happened for which, at present, there
seemed no accounting. Somebody seemed to be doing what he liked with
this wonderful safe, abstracting and replacing property when he chose,
without hindrance, in a house full of people. One novel feature on
this occasion was the total absence of finger-prints. They had been
carefully rubbed out.

Morrice seemed greatly perturbed, as was quite natural under the
circumstances; but Lane noticed that there was a considerable
difference in his demeanour on this occasion from the last, when he had
insisted, with some display of temper, upon the certainty of Croxton’s
guilt.

Lane had been a little nettled at the time—at the cocksure attitude
of this hard-headed man of business who, however great his success in
his own particular line, did not seem to possess a very great logical
faculty, and could not forbear putting a rather pertinent question.

“Are you quite as sure as you were, Mr. Morrice, that your late
secretary is the thief?”

Morrice shrugged his shoulders. It was easy to see that he was in
a subdued mood; there was no fear of further explosions to-day.
“I admit there are complications in this infernal business that
perplex one extremely. But I don’t think that, so far, I can see any
particular reasons for altering my previous opinion. You can’t get
over the insurmountable fact that Croxton and myself were the only
two persons who knew the secret of the mechanism. He may not be the
actual purloiner, I admit; he may have passed on his knowledge to a
confederate with whom he shares the spoil.”

Lane let fall only a few words in answer to these observations, but
they were very significant ones.

“Don’t forget, Mr. Morrice, that you lost the original key or
memorandum, as you call it, of the workings.”

But the financier was an obstinate person, as many strong-minded men
are. When he had once formed a theory, he did not give it up in a hurry.

“Only mislaid, I expect,” he answered, but it was easy to see his tone
was not quite so confident as usual. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it
turned up at any moment.”

But Lane hastened to put on a damper at once. “And if it did, I don’t
see that it would help you so very much. You couldn’t possibly know in
what other hands it might have been during the interval.”

The financier had no wish to engage in further argument with this calm,
self-possessed man, whose merciless logic made such short work of
anything in the nature of a positive opinion.

“It doesn’t seem to matter much what I think,” he cried with a slight
return of his old petulance. “And perhaps it would be wiser to admit at
once that I don’t possess your capacity for weighing facts and drawing
deductions from them. I should like to know one thing, Mr. Lane—does
what has just happened convey any new suggestions to you, throw any
fresh light upon the situation?”

He did not gauge the detective as accurately as one might have expected
from a man with his wide knowledge of human nature, or he would never
have put this question in the hope of getting a satisfactory answer.
Whatever theory or theories might be forming in his mind, and there
could be no doubt that it was working at full-speed all the time, and
readjusting itself to every fresh turn of events, Lane would make no
disclosures till he judged the time was ripe.

He shook his head with great gravity: “We work very slowly, Mr.
Morrice; we come to conclusions with equal slowness, in our profession.
I dare say to a keen business man like yourself who plan your _coups_
with lightning rapidity, make and clinch a deal of many thousands in a
few minutes, we must seem dull, plodding fellows. But you must remember
that most of our time we are working underground where very little
light penetrates. What has happened to-day may suggest a new line of
thought to me, but I have not yet had time to digest its significance.
It will want a great deal of patient thinking over before it bears any
fruit.”

With this the rather impatient financier had to be content. He was
beginning to have a certain respect for the firm, self-reliant attitude
of the detective, who did not appear to be in the least overawed by
Morrice’s wealth and position. And he had a shrewd idea that, in his
own particular and less remunerative line, Lane had a brain not greatly
inferior to his own. They worked in different directions with a vast
disproportion between the rewards attending their efforts. Morrice had
the instinct of moneymaking, Lane the instinct of unravelling criminal
mysteries. Perhaps in the bare fact of intellectual equipment there was
not much to choose between them.

As the detective passed through the hall on his way out, he found
Rosabelle waiting for him. She was of course cognizant of what had
happened, and on Lane’s arrival her first idea had been to be present
at the interview between him and her uncle. But on second thoughts she
had decided to speak to the detective alone.

She still loved her uncle very dearly; she must always do that for
all the kindness and affection he had lavished on her. But it was
impossible there should not be a little secret antagonism between the
two in the circumstances. He appeared to be firmly convinced of Richard
Croxton’s guilt, she as firmly convinced of his innocence. She was a
fair-minded girl, and she was prepared to make every allowance for
Morrice’s attitude, but as there did not seem any common ground on
which they could meet when the matter was under discussion, she judged
it best to speak of it to him as little as possible.

She put to him practically the same question that her uncle had done:
“Well, Mr. Lane, what do you think of the new development? Does it
reveal anything to you?”

That wary and cautious person shook his head. He had taken a great
liking to Rosabelle. Her staunch devotion to her lover had appealed to
the finer chords of his nature; for although he never allowed sentiment
to sway him unduly, he was by no means destitute of that human quality.
But not even for Rosabelle’s sake would he depart greatly from that
cautious attitude which was habitual to him.

“It is a strange development, Miss Sheldon, but I have not yet had
time to think it over. I am going back to my office to do so, and the
thinking over will take some time.”

Her charming face fell. “You cannot see in it even the remotest thing
that tells in favour of Richard Croxton?”

The eyes were very sad, the voice was very pleading. Should he give
the unhappy girl one little crumb of comfort? For a little time he
hesitated, then compassion got the better of prudence and of his iron
reserve.

“I will just say this, Miss Sheldon, and no more. It is becoming a less
impossible task to clear him than I at first thought; but please don’t
be too jubilant—there are still very formidable difficulties in the
way.”

A radiant light came into the charming face, although her eyes filled
with tears and she clasped her hands nervously together. Her voice
trembled as she spoke.

“You have put new life into me with those words, Mr. Lane. I know you
quite well by now, and I am sure that, coming from you, they mean much.”

Poor Lane began to think he had made a bit of a mistake in departing
from his usual caution, in being moved by the pleading attitude of the
girl into giving her this small crumb of comfort. That was the worst of
women—they were so impressionable and optimistic, or pessimistic, as
the case might be. Their moods were never equable: they were either at
the height of elation or in the depth of despair.

“Please do not let me excite false hopes, Miss Sheldon,” he hastened
to say. “Remember, I have told you there are great difficulties in the
way. Until we are on much firmer ground I would beg that you do not
repeat my words to Mr. Croxton.”

But she did not give any answer to this request, and he knew that for
all practical purposes he might have held his peace. Of course, she
would post off to her lover as soon as she could get away, and infect
him with her own optimism. Well, he was loath to confide too much in
the most hard-headed and sceptical man; he had only himself to blame
for having been over-confidential with a member of the emotional sex.

Later on in the day Rosabelle carried out his prediction; she made
up her mind to pay a visit to Petersham, to hearten her lover with a
recital of those words which she was convinced meant so much, coming
from a man of Lane’s cautious temperament.

Morrice had left the house shortly after the detective’s departure.
The two women would have lunched alone together but for the unexpected
arrival of young Archie Brookes, who was pressed to stay for the meal.

Rosabelle was very sensitive to impressions, and, for so young a girl,
particularly observant. It struck her that during the progress of the
luncheon the young man seemed rather _distrait_ and preoccupied. Two
or three times he answered at random, and once Mrs. Morrice called out
to him sharply, “I don’t think you are listening to what I am saying,
Archie.” At that rebuke he seemed to pull himself together, but the
girl was sure his thoughts were far away from her aunt’s light chatter.

Presently aunt and nephew, to call him what Rosabelle, ignorant of
Lane’s discoveries, still believed him to be, went up to Mrs. Morrice’s
boudoir. There was nothing unusual in this; it was a frequent custom
when the young man called or lunched at the house.

Rosabelle thought she would start for Petersham at once, making her
journey there as usual in a taxi. She always had plenty of money for
her needs, as Morrice supplemented her own little modest income of a
hundred a year with a very generous allowance.

As she went upstairs to her own room to make ready for her expedition,
she passed her aunt’s boudoir, the door of which stood slightly ajar.
It was a rather unusual circumstance, for when the two were closeted
together Rosabelle had noticed that it was nearly always closed. This
time it had evidently been forgotten by both.

She was not a girl who in ordinary circumstances would have
condescended to listen at doors, but she could not help hearing words
that startled and puzzled her.

Archie was speaking in a voice of great excitement and emotion. “But
if I don’t have it I am ruined. It means that I cannot face the
disgrace—there is only one alternative——” His voice had by now sunk
almost to a whisper, and she could not catch what followed.

She stood rooted to the spot. The young man’s preoccupied manner at the
lunch-table was accounted for. He was in some deep trouble from which
he was begging Mrs. Morrice to rescue him.

She heard her aunt reply in tones that were half angry, half tearful.
“How many times have you threatened me with that, and I have yielded. I
have half ruined myself for you; it cannot go on much longer.”

Suddenly she felt that she was listening to a conversation not intended
for her ears, and resolutely turned away and went to her own room. For
the present she would say nothing, not even to Dick, of what she had
heard by the purest accident. But she thought over it all the way on
the long drive to Petersham. Was there yet another tragedy going on in
the Morrice household, and was her placid-looking, dignified aunt the
centre of it?

And what was that alternative which Archie Brookes had described in
a whisper she could not catch? Had he threatened to destroy himself
if his request were not acceded to? And what did Mrs. Morrice mean by
saying she had half ruined herself for him?

CHAPTER XIV

AN ALARMING INTERRUPTION

Punctually at five o’clock on the appointed evening Lane and Simmons
met. On the face of the valet was a triumphant expression.

“We needn’t try this new scheme of yours, Mr. Cox—Mr. Lane, I should
say. I’ll come back to the flat with you; it’s all plain sailing. The
drawer is unlocked. The bank-book isn’t there, and he’s taken the
cheque-book with him; but he’s left the paying-in slips all right. You
said these would do.”

Not by any means for the first time was Gideon Lane impressed by the
inconsistencies of the human temperament. Here was a shrewd, clever
man like Sir George Clayton-Brookes, one who counted his cigars and
wine-bottles to prevent his valet helping himself to a surreptitious
smoke or drink! Surely he would be equally meticulous in other and
more important matters. And yet, he had gone away leaving that drawer
unlocked, its contents open to the prying eyes of Simmons.

The detective himself would never have done such a thing, and he was
quite sure he had less to conceal than this mysterious baronet who
passed himself off as a wealthy man, while all the evidence that had
been gathered pointed to the contrary. Perhaps Sir George, like many
other persons of considerable mentality—for there was little doubt
that he had brains of a certain order—entertained a great contempt for
the intelligence of his inferiors, and thought that if Simmons did pry
about in his absence he would not be much the wiser for his researches.

The baronet resided on the first floor of a block of service flats in
the Victoria direction, finding this mode of living very suitable to
him. Simmons slept out, coming early in the morning and leaving at all
sorts of times dependent upon his master’s convenience. In the course
of his communications to Lane, the detective had gathered that, in
many respects, it was a very easy place. Sir George did a great deal
for himself, so that the valet’s duties were not onerous, and he had
a lot of spare time. If his master went out for the evening, and this
happened on most evenings of the week, Simmons was never required to
await his return. His meals he occasionally took in the restaurant
attached to the flats, but more frequently he lunched and dined at
his clubs or the private houses of his acquaintances. Breakfast, a
Continental one of coffee and rolls, was served in his own apartments.

“As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want a valet at all,” was Simmons’s
rather contemptuous comment on his master’s habits. “And if he
consulted his own inclinations, I don’t believe he would keep one, for
he’s that dirt mean that I know he begrudges me my wages every time he
pays me. What can you expect of a man who sells all his old clothes to
a second-hand dealer? Not a waistcoat or a pair of old boots have I had
since I was in his service. He’s obliged to keep one to carry out his
policy of ‘swank.’ He knows his friends would think it deuced queer for
one in his position to be without a man.”

It formed a handsome suite of apartments, with its two elegantly
furnished sitting-rooms, large airy bedroom and capacious bathroom.
Still, one would only put it down as the abode of a man comfortably
well-off, not one supposed to be actually wealthy.

“Here we are!” exclaimed Mr. Simmons, as he ushered the detective into
the smaller of the two sitting-rooms, which was used as a smoking-room
and study in which the owner wrote his letters and attended to his
business, whatever it was.

“And here’s the writing-table, and that top one on the left is the
drawer in which you want to look. I’m glad it’s turned out like this,
Mr. Lane; I feel a good bit easier in my mind. Nobody can call this
burglary, eh? No harm in taking a peep at things that be under your
hand, is there?”

By which it will be seen that Mr. Simmons, though perhaps not a high
authority on morals, had certain well-defined ethics of his own. It
was not stealing to abstract a cigar from the store of a master who
did not resort to the discreditable meanness of putting out a dozen in
a box at a time so that he would easily miss one; it was not wrong to
help yourself as often as you could to a glass of good wine; it was not
against the moral code to listen outside doors, or to read letters and
papers to which you could procure easy access through your employer’s
carelessness. But in some matters the valet was a purist, more, it
is to be feared, from terror of the legal consequences than from the
revolt of a tender conscience. He did draw the line at picking locks or
steaming open a letter.

Growing quite daring in his comfortable belief that they were engaged
in a comparatively innocent operation, he pulled the drawer open with
his own hands and pointed to the pale-coloured little book which
contained the paying-in slips.

“There it is; goes back for two months. Is that enough for you? I hope
so, for I don’t know where he puts the old ones; locks them up in his
safe, I expect.”

Lane intimated it would be quite sufficient for his purposes, and got
to work at once. He took careful notice of the exact position of the
little book which was lying at a slight angle on the top of a pile of
papers, so that he could replace it in the same position. Sir George,
careless as he appeared to be in some matters, might have a good memory
in certain things, and might notice on his return that the contents of
the drawer had been disturbed. Still, that did not matter very much if
he did suspect; his suspicions would naturally fall upon Simmons as
the guilty party, and, truth to tell, the detective was not very much
concerned about that individual. He had proved a useful and adaptable
instrument, but Lane could not help despising him for a smooth-faced
hypocrite and venal rogue.

It cannot be said that he enjoyed the situation very much himself. He
had taken this course because he could think of no other which would
serve his ends, and one has often to resort to dirty means in a good
cause. But even if Sir George was the scoundrel he was beginning to
believe him to be, the action he was now taking savoured just a little
too much of hitting below the belt to square with his stolid English
notions of fair play. If it had been possible he would have preferred
to come out more in the open. Still, all is fair in war; he had
comforted himself with that reflection many times in the course of his
active career.

It was not a very long task, for there seemed to be but few payments,
and those mostly for small sums. The name of Willis occurred frequently
in the margin of the counterfoils, evidently this was the person who
had paid the amounts to Sir George.

“Do you know anything of a man named Willis?” asked Lane of the valet
who was watching his proceedings with great interest. He was a very
curious fellow, and he would dearly have liked to know the particular
object of the present researches.

“Yes, that’s his bookmaker,” was the answer of Simmons.

Mr. Willis’s cheques were for trifling sums which seemed to prove
that the baronet did not bet so high as was generally supposed, as he
pretended to his friends, according to the valet’s account. But, of
course, it was not proof positive. Like most men who follow racing, he
would win one day and lose the next, so that at the end of the week
there might be a very trifling balance against him or in his favour.

What, of course, Lane was looking for was an entry a little subsequent
to the first big burglary, when the diamonds and the big bundle of
foreign notes had been stolen. There was certainly the biggest entry
he had seen in the book about a week after the actual date of the
robbery, and against it was marked the word “cash.” But it was only for
seventy-five pounds.

Now the diamonds alone, according to Lane’s information, had cost
Mr. Morrice no less than eight thousand pounds, as the stones were
big ones, perfect in matching and colour. Granted that they had been
realized by the thief or thieves at a tremendous depreciation, they
should at least have brought in a fourth of that sum. It was hardly
possible that Sir George, even if he were a member of a gang who shared
the spoil, would engage in such a dangerous operation for the sake of
the paltry sum of seventy-five pounds.

Including that item the total payings-in for the two months were a
little over four hundred pounds. Assuming that this was a fair average,
the baronet’s income would be only slightly more than two thousand a
year. It was a small amount for a man who went about in good society,
and according to Simmons, spent about five hundred a year at least
on his clothes, and entertained his friends lavishly to lunches and
dinners at the most expensive restaurants.

“That’s what riles me about him,” observed the valet when he had
answered Lane’s direct questions on these points. “A month ago he
bought a new car that must have cost him every penny of a thousand
pounds. He thinks nothing of paying fifty pounds for a dinner to his
pals, I know that from one or two waiters who are friends of mine. And
yet he’s so devilish mean in some things, he sells his old clothes, he
begrudges me a cigar or a glass of wine, and while he’s blueing all
this money, his bank won’t let him overdraw five pounds, according to
his own statement which I overheard him make to his nephew.”

“On the evidence of this book, one would say he was, comparatively
speaking, a poor man, that is to say a poor man for his position,” said
the detective in a musing tone, as he restored the little pale-coloured
book to its original position, and shut the drawer. “And yet he spends
any amount of money on clothes and entertaining, and can plank down a
thousand pounds for a new car. You said yourself he was a poor man,
pretending to be rich.”

“He seems to be wealthy one day and hard-up the next, now one comes to
go into it a bit closer,” remarked Mr. Simmons. “I expect I was guided
a bit too much to my opinion by the fact of his being in such a blue
funk about that cheque he had changed at the club.”

“That little book is a blind, Simmons; no wonder he is careless about
that drawer; he knows that whatever you can see there will not disclose
the true state of his affairs. And you say he bought that car about a
month ago.”

“Of course, he may owe for it, for anything we know to the contrary,”
was the valet’s comment, “only just paid a bit down and is trying to
raise the wind somewhere now. Perhaps that’s the object of his present
journey.”

The detective was thinking deeply, it was a puzzling situation. He
had been in hopes that he might have got some absolute results from
his visit to Sir George’s flat and the inspection of his paying-in
book. The outcome was quite negative. The one suspicious thing was the
purchase of that car, and as Simmons had truly remarked, it might have
been bought on credit. Still, supposing it had been, Sir George must
have expected to lay his hands upon a thousand pounds pretty soon.

The drawer contained nothing to help him. He cast his eyes longingly
at the safe which stood in the corner of the room, a big one, made by
one of the best-known makers in London. He would very much have liked
to have a peep into that safe, it might have yielded up some secrets.
But he was not an expert safe-breaker like Mr. “Tubby” Thomas now
languishing in Dartmoor, or the hitherto undiscovered thief who had
practised his art in the big, old-fashioned house in Deanery Street.

He lost himself in speculation for some little time, almost oblivious
of the valet’s presence. That gentleman thought it time that attention
should be paid to his own immediate affairs, and coughed gently to
raise Lane from his reverie.

“Haven’t you found what you wanted?” he asked, with an anxious look in
his cunning little eyes.

“To tell the truth, I haven’t. For all practical purposes I might as
well not have taken on the job.”

The anxious look grew more intense. Mr. Simmons had small faith in his
fellow-men. Perhaps the detective might try to get out of his bargain,
if not altogether, to a very considerable extent.

He spoke in an ingratiating tone. “Not my fault, is it? I’ve done all
you wanted, haven’t I?”

“Oh, certainly, there is no blame attached to you.” Lane understood
what he was driving at and extracted from a letter-case several
five-pound notes, the balance of the sum which he had undertaken to
pay, and handed them to the valet, who received them with profuse
expressions of gratitude and a look of relief.

“Many, many thanks. Is there any other question you’d like to ask? Only
too happy to oblige.”

“Well, yes, Mr. Simmons, since you’re so kind, we may as well have a
little further chat while I’m here; we shan’t be disturbed. It’s about
this nephew, young Archie Brookes, who seems so fully in his uncle’s
confidence. What can you tell me about him?”

Mr. Simmons with that nice sum of money nestling snugly in his pocket
was in a most obliging mood, and hastened to unfold all he knew.

“Well, Mr. Lane, as you know, I haven’t been in Sir George’s service
very long, and what I know is chiefly gathered from his former valet,
who is now with the Duke of Droitwich, a man named Dundas, and other
servants who have been about in the same sort of set.”

“What I want to know particularly is when he first appeared upon the
scene. I understand the story given out is that he’s the son of a
younger brother of Sir George’s, that the father died in Australia, and
that his uncle sent for the young fellow and introduced him to London
society.”

“Quite right, Mr. Lane. This happened about five years ago. Sir George
gave out the story as you have heard it, the young man came over, and
ever since his arrival the two have been inseparable. When Sir George
is in town, and that’s the best part of the year, there’s hardly a day
passes that young Archie doesn’t come here, sometimes staying for only
a few minutes. Sir George put him up for a couple of decent clubs that
he belongs to himself, but not for the two very exclusive ones of which
he is a member. I suppose the young chap is not quite big enough for
them.”

“Is he supposed to have any money of his own?”

“According to my friend Dundas, not more than a pittance. Dundas was
in the service of a great friend of Sir George’s before he went to the
baronet, and he got the information from him. The father, according
to this account, died leaving very little; the mother had died years
before. His uncle practically adopted him with the intention of making
him his heir. Although, as you and I know, Mr. Lane, whether there will
be anything for him to be heir to is a bit of a puzzle, I think.”

“There is the furniture of this flat which is worth a bit, and the
motor-car,” observed Lane with a humorous smile. “Do I take it then
that the young man is supported by Sir George?”

“That’s what my friend Dundas gathered.”

“If that is a fact, it might account for the baronet being a
comparatively poor man, then. What sort of style does this young Archie
keep up?”

“From all that I hear, he makes a greater show than his uncle. He
rents a flat in the Hyde Park district twice the rent of this, runs
a Rolls-Royce and keeps a valet. I know his man, and he says it’s a
ripping job. He’s as open-handed as his uncle is stingy. Gives jolly
bachelor dinners sent in from outside to his own place, where they swim
in champagne and the most expensive wines. Jenks, my friend, can take
as many cigars as he likes, nothing is ever said; many a time I’ve
cracked a bottle of young Archie’s best champagne when he’s been out of
the way. Jenks says he’d give him one if he asked for it. When he goes
for his holiday, he chucks him a tenner; he does the same at Christmas.
He has no end of clothes which he never half wears out, and as soon as
he tires of a suit he tosses it over to my friend. Oh, there’s some
pretty little ‘picks’ there, I can tell you. If I was in the young
man’s service, instead of in this old curmudgeon’s, I shouldn’t be
looking out for a new place, you bet your life.”

“A gay young gentleman, evidently,” observed Lane, to whom all this
information was intensely interesting.

“Rather! He spends money right and left. He’s got a lot of lady
friends, many of them not too particular, married and single. He’s
always buying handsome presents for them. His jeweller’s bills tot up
to a nice round sum, Jenks tells me. Besides that, he gambles a lot,
but he doesn’t back horses much.”

“Then we have established one fact pretty clearly,” said the detective
decisively. “If this young scapegrace has no money and his uncle is
paying the piper, Sir George must, after all, be the wealthy man that
popular report considers him.”

The door of the room in which they were sitting and holding this
confidential conversation was partly open, and just as Lane had
finished speaking, both men distinctly heard the sound of a key being
inserted in the hall door.

The valet swore wickedly under his breath, and sprang to his feet, his
face white as chalk, his hands shaking.

“It’s Archie, I know his cat-like footstep. The old devil has left his
key with him. He’s come after his letters, they won’t trust me with the
address.”

Lane was disturbed too, he had not bargained for this sudden
interruption, and Simmons looked so panic-stricken, being a
white-livered sort of fellow, that his looks were enough to hang him.

“Pull yourself together and leave as much as you can to me,” he
whispered to the shaking valet. Then he strode across the room and
pretended to be examining a picture while he awaited the entrance of
Archibald Brookes.

CHAPTER XV

THE ANONYMOUS LETTER

Disturbed as he was at this untoward happening, and perhaps a little
annoyed at his prophecy to the valet, that they ran practically no risk
of interruption, having been falsified, Lane was compensated by the
knowledge that he would have the opportunity of observing this young
impostor at close quarters, and judging what manner of man he was. If
Simmons’s account was correct, he did not resemble his supposed uncle
in the more ungracious of his qualities.

Young Brookes came into the room and took in the situation at a glance.
Sir George’s servant had taken advantage of his master’s absence to
ask in an acquaintance; he knew the habits of that master too well to
believe that there was any hospitality involved in the invitation. If
that had been, or was about to be exercised, it would have to be at
Simmons’s own expense.

He was an easy-going fellow in many ways, and there was nothing very
heinous in such a proceeding. The man had been in the service of
well-known people for many years, and had come to his present employer
with a most excellent character. He was also a very shrewd fellow and
not likely to mix with undesirable associates, much less introduce one
of them into a place which contained a good many valuable articles.

Probably he would have thought little of the incident but for signs of
consternation on the valet’s panic-stricken face. Truth to tell, the
unhappy man was so unstrung that he thought it must be as patent to
Archie Brookes as it was to his own guilty conscience, that the two
men had been engaged in a nefarious enterprise.

A look of suspicion gradually stole over the young man’s features,
growing deeper as Simmons’s lips stammered forth a few confused words
which showed that the man’s mind was in a whirl and he hardly knew what
he was saying.

“Good evening, Mr. Archie; hardly expected you’d pop in. Sir George
left early this morning for the country, didn’t say where he was going.
A friend of mine, Mr. Cox, very fond of pictures, been in the line
himself at one time, a dealer. I told him Sir George had a few very
fine ones, thought he might like to have a peep at ’em. Hope you won’t
think I’ve taken too great a liberty, sir.”

It was a desperate invention on the part of Simmons, this about the
picture-dealing, not a very happy one, the detective thought. But the
poor wretch was in too confused a state to think, and said the first
thing that suggested itself to him. Archie Brookes looked from one
to the other and he did not appear to be quite satisfied. Lane bore
himself very well, and his conscience did not prick him in the least.
He assumed the stolid demeanour of a man who has nothing to fear, an
attitude to which his rather grave countenance lent strong support.
If only this white-livered fellow could conceal his tremors, Archie
Brookes would suspect nothing; but this was just what the unfortunate
valet found it so difficult to do.

The young man favoured Lane with a very prolonged stare which the
detective bore without flinching. He had made up his mind as to his
course of action if things got troublesome, if young Mr. Brookes
adopted a threatening attitude. He would disclaim the valet’s ingenious
fiction about the picture-dealing, boldly proclaim who he was, admit he
had made use of Simmons to learn what he could about his master, and
tell the young gentleman himself he knew him for the impostor he was.

Still, he did not wish to push matters to extremes, to take a step
which would put the two men on their guard. He would only do all this
as a very last resource. Meanwhile, he would trust to diplomacy to get
out of the awkward situation in which he had been placed by the valet’s
extreme cowardice.

“So you are in the picture line, are you?” said Brookes at length;
and Lane thought there was a slight sneer on the good-looking, rather
effeminate face, which the detective did not allow himself to be
ruffled by.

“Was,” answered the other, backing up the valet’s mendacious statement
so far. “Been out of it for many years, but still retain my old
fondness for good stuff.” He spoke in his most stolid manner, assuming
the rôle of a small tradesman quite successfully.

“And what might be your line now, pray?” The tone was just a trifle
insolent. There was no doubt the young man could be a bit of a bully
when he liked, and Lane was quite sure that the undeniably gentlemanly
appearance was only veneer. Sellars had told him that he was considered
rather a bounder.

Lane had told one lie, in order to bolster up things; it would not hurt
him very much to tell another.

“I’m in the furniture business now,” he exclaimed briefly.

Young Brookes looked hard from one man to the other. He did not appear
quite satisfied; on the other hand, he did not seem quite certain of
the grounds on which he could express his suspicions.

“I shouldn’t think much of the thing in an ordinary kind of way,” he
said in a hesitating voice. “‘When the cat’s away the mice will play,’
and of course servants have their friends in when their masters and
mistresses are safely out of the road. I don’t say it isn’t all square
and above-board, but Simmons here looks in such a devilish funk that
one might be pardoned if one thought you had been burgling the place.”

What had crossed his mind was out at last. Lane drew himself up with a
stolid air of offended dignity.

“I’m rather thinking you mean that as a kind of joke, sir. If I
didn’t, I might remind you that there is such a thing as an action for
defamation of character.” He delivered these words with a splendid air
of outraged virtue which, he was pleased to observe, rather cowed the
impetuous young man. “As my presence seems unwelcome, I will take the
liberty of wishing you good evening, unless you would wish me to stay
while you go through Sir George’s property to satisfy yourself that I
haven’t helped myself to anything.”

It was a master stroke, a fine piece of bluff, and it had the effect
intended. Lane was pretty certain he had taken a correct measure of the
young man.

Young Mr. Brookes thought it wiser to temporize; he did not relish
that nasty hint about defamation of character. Besides, there was
nothing burglarious about Lane’s appearance. It would have been very
difficult to say what he looked like. He was certainly not a common
person, neither could you say that he gave you the impression of being
a gentleman. With his clean-shaven face and rather grave expression you
might perhaps have associated him with the theatrical profession.

“Oh yes, a joke of course, Mr. —— I didn’t quite catch the name Simmons
gave me.”

“Cox,” hastily interposed the valet. Seeing that in consequence of the
detective’s masterly attitude, things seemed to be taking a turn for
the better, he was gradually regaining control of himself, his colour
was coming back to his pale cheeks, and he was beginning to think
coherently.

“Ah, Mr. Cox. I make no insinuations. But you must admit Simmons cut a
devilish rum figure when I came in.”

It was all blowing over very nicely. Lane felt he could afford to
unbend from his lofty attitude of outraged dignity. His smiled quite
pleasantly and spoke in an almost jovial tone.

“No offence taken, sir, where none is intended. My friend Simmons is
a very sensitive chap, I know. I suppose he felt he had been taking a
bit of a liberty. If you should want me any time, my friend knows where
to find me, at a little place where we sometimes take a little mild
refreshment together. Good evening to you, sir. Bye-bye, Simmons; see
you again soon, I dare say.”

And with these parting words Lane walked out, carrying with him the
honours of war, and grateful that a decidedly awkward situation had
ended so satisfactorily. He trusted that when the valet was left alone
with young Brookes he would keep his head, and be wary in replying to
any too searching questions which might be put to him.

But, as a matter of fact, as he learned subsequently, nothing awkward
occurred. Archie Brookes had apparently recovered from his suspicions
in the face of Lane’s manly and dignified attitude, and accepted the
theory so adroitly put forward that the valet’s appearance of guilt was
the outcome of a remarkably shrinking and sensitive nature.

All that night, Rosabelle could hardly get any sleep for thinking of
that strange fragment of conversation between aunt and nephew which she
had overheard in the afternoon. It was with great difficulty she kept
herself from telling her lover, but she wanted to meditate well over
the matter before confiding it to anyone.

She felt that if anybody ought to know it was her uncle; in fact,
was it not almost her duty to tell him? On the other hand, she had
a considerable affection for her aunt, and shrank from getting her
into trouble. The relations between the two had been for years very
close, and Mrs. Morrice had always shown her great kindness. Since the
introduction of Archie Brookes there had been a certain diminution of
affection on her aunt’s part, the new-comer had considerably ousted her.

But Rosabelle was a very fair-minded girl, and she did not resent that.
There was no blood-tie between her and Mrs. Morrice. The husband and
wife got on very comfortably together, but it was easy to see it was
a very placid union, that their marriage had not been prompted by any
great depth of feeling on either side, and there were no children to
draw them closer together.

It was only natural, therefore, that she should welcome this young
man so closely related to her, the son of a, probably, deeply loved
sister. On him she could expend that wealth of maternal feeling which,
so far, had never been called into existence, but which resides in the
heart of every good, womanly woman. Small wonder that Rosabelle, to a
considerable extent, should have receded into the background. Had she
been in her aunt’s position, the same thing would most probably have
occurred.

She had not told it to Dick, she shrank from telling it to her uncle;
for the present she was disposed to keep it to herself. Under ordinary
circumstances it would have seemed to her a tragedy of the first
importance, that this good-looking young nephew was preying upon his
aunt’s weakness or fondness for him, to such an extent that she had
declared herself to be half ruined. But the greater tragedy of her
lover lying under a horrible stigma absorbed all minor ones; she saw
them, as it were, only in perspective.

The two things could not be in any way related, she felt pretty
sure. And yet, as she lay in the darkness, pondering and pondering,
suddenly there flashed across her the thought, coming almost with
the force of an inspiration, that the detective ought to be told. He
had especially impressed upon her at the beginning of their business
connection, that she was to report to him any uncommon happening in the
Morrice household, irrespective of whether or not it seemed to her of
importance. What was troubling her now was certainly not a common or
trivial thing.

To think was to act. If the knowledge were of benefit to him, he would
use it as he thought fit—and after all, the greatest concern of her
life at the moment was the restoration of her lover to his former
honourable place in the regard of those who knew the real reason of his
exile from her uncle’s house. And, if the knowledge was useless to him,
she was quite sure of the man; he would never divulge it unless she
gave him permission.

She was round at Lane’s office early the next morning. Mrs. Morrice had
not appeared at breakfast, but Rosabelle noticed at dinner the night
before, and afterwards when they were together in the drawing-room,
that her manner had appeared anxious and preoccupied.

It could not be said of Lane at any time that he was a man whom you
could read like an open book, but she was sure the information made
a great impression on him. As was his custom after an important
communication had been made to him, he sat silent for some little time.

“And you have said nothing about this to your uncle, or Mr. Croxton?”
he asked at length. “I am so far the only person to whom you have
revealed it?”

“Because I thought you ought to know,” answered the girl frankly. “My
uncle ought to be told, I feel that, but I shrink from telling him; it
might create an irreparable breach between them, and I should be very
grieved to be the cause of it. I think, or rather I am sure, that my
aunt has not the same affection for me that she had before the arrival
of Archie, but that is only natural, and not a thing to be resented.
She has always shown me unvarying kindness, and made my life in Deanery
Street very happy. And you know, Mr. Lane, it is not every woman who
would have done that in the circumstances. For my dear uncle has been
always very demonstrative in his love for me, and it might have aroused
the jealousy of a great many wives.”

What a sweet-natured, tolerant-minded girl she was, her listener
thought. Then he said decisively: “Certainly Mr. Morrice ought to know.
You would object to my telling him, I suppose?”

Yes, Rosabelle shrank from that. “It would come to the same thing,
would it not? He would want to know where you got your information
from, and you would have to tell him. I might as well do it myself.
Besides, I expect he would be very angry with me for having told you at
all. He is a very proud man in certain things.”

Yes, there was a good deal of shrewdness in that remark. He might be
able to get through it without bringing her in, for he was a man of
infinite resources, but although by no means scrupulous when driven to
use subterfuge, he did not employ tortuous methods if it was possible
to avoid them.

“Tell me, Miss Sheldon, what do you know of your aunt’s affairs? Has
she money of her own?”

“I should say very little. I have more than once heard her jokingly
allude to her ‘paltry income.’ But I know my uncle makes her a very
handsome allowance, although I don’t know the precise amount. And he
is always making her presents of valuable and expensive jewellery.”

It was evident, by his serious look, that he was thinking very deeply.
“That allowance, of course, he makes her for her own personal needs,
and to maintain her proper position as the wife of a wealthy man. If
he knew that she was diverting any, or a considerable portion, of this
money to supplying this young man’s extravagant needs, you are of
opinion he would be greatly incensed.”

“I am sure of it. He is peculiar in many ways, he abhors strongly
anything in the nature of deceit. If she came to him openly and said
she was going to give Archie money, he might remonstrate with her,
actually forbid her, or take the view that it was her own and she could
do what she wished with it. But he would never forgive her doing it
clandestinely, I mean in large sums. He would think it a betrayal of
the trust he had reposed in her.”

Lane’s brain was still working on the problem presented to him.
Morrice, according to Rosabelle, made his wife a handsome allowance.
That might be taken for granted. He had a wide reputation for
generosity, and for pride’s sake he would be especially lavish to his
wife. But what is a very ample allowance for a woman does not go far
when constant drains are made upon it by a young man who lived in the
style that Simmons had described when speaking of Archie Brookes.

“Have you noticed any diminution in Mrs. Morrice’s expenditure on
herself since the arrival of this nephew on the scene, Miss Sheldon?”

Rosabelle gave her evidence very reluctantly, but it was right Lane
should know the whole circumstances. From the very beginning, her aunt
had appeared to curtail her personal expenditure. For the last twelve
months, her economy in her own direction had been much more marked. It
pointed to the fact that Archie had been draining her considerably.

Lane thought more than considerably. That poignant exclamation that she
had been half ruined suggested a good deal to him.

“I am going to ask you a rather peculiar question, Miss Sheldon. Are
Mr. and Mrs. Morrice what might be described as a very devoted couple?
You know what I mean, are they wrapt up in each other as some people
are at their time of life when they have married solely for love?”

It was a peculiar question certainly; to Rosabelle it seemed rather an
irrelevant one. But she was sure the detective never asked irrelevant
questions. He had some good reason for putting this one, without doubt,
and she would give him a perfectly candid answer.

“Why, no, it certainly would not be accurate to describe them as that.
I am certain they have a great respect for each other, and a very quiet
and placid affection. He is the soul of generosity and courtesy to
her; she respects his wishes in everything. You see, he was devotedly
in love with Mr. Croxton’s mother; he kept unmarried for years for her
sake. A man cannot love twice like that, can he, Mr. Lane?” concluded
Rosabelle artlessly.

The detective smiled kindly at the romantic girl. No doubt she was
contrasting the placid affection between the Morrices, and her own
ardent love for young Croxton and his for her. And no doubt she was
sure, like all fervent souls, that when the years had silvered her hair
and stolen the roses from her cheeks, love would burn as brightly as in
the hey-day of their glorious youth.

“I am not a great expert in the tender passion, Miss Sheldon, but I am
quite prepared to believe real love comes but once in a lifetime to
either man or woman. Well, now, I am much obliged to you for telling me
what you have done, and I am glad you told me. For the present we will
keep it to ourselves. But I think you had better face the fact that,
sooner or later, Mr. Morrice will have to be told by one of us.”

When the girl had left, Lane indulged in a long fit of meditation. Yes,
Morrice had better know this at once. He could probably invent more
than one plan by which Rosabelle could be kept out of it, even if he
approached him directly. But Lane had gauged the financier sufficiently
to know that in some respects he was a very peculiar man. He might
resent the detective’s interference in what he considered a purely
private matter, and order him out of the house.

He would adopt a method which he had used more than once before when he
did not wish to appear personally. He went to a small typewriter which
he only used on special occasions; his usual one had a personality of
its own which might be easily identified, for certain typewriting is
sometimes as distinctive as handwriting.

He indited a brief epistle and addressed it to “Rupert Morrice,
Esquire,” taking care to mark it “Private.” He would take it down
to the City and post it there, thus avoiding the tell-tale West End
postmark.

It was an anonymous letter, signed by “A Well-wisher.” “If that
doesn’t stir him to some sort of action, we must think of something
else,” so ran the reflections of this astute man. “It may precipitate
an explosion, and amongst other things reveal to him that Mr. Archie
Brookes is no more his wife’s nephew than I am.”

He walked away from the pillar-box in the City well pleased with
himself. It could not be said that he felt any compunction with regard
to Mrs. Morrice _née_ Miss Lettice Larchester. She had, no doubt,
married the man for his money, and was treating him very badly. But
even if he had, his hand would not have been stayed in consequence. His
first duty was to his clients.

CHAPTER XVI

AT SCOTLAND YARD

Dismissing from his mind for the moment the incident which Rosabelle
Sheldon had made a special visit to communicate to him—the anonymous
letter would put in train the machinery for elucidating the real facts
of that—there were two pressing problems that Lane was anxious to solve
without any undue delay. The one was the actual position of Sir George
Clayton-Brookes. Was he a comparatively poor man, as his paying-in book
went to prove; or a rich one, as his lavish expenditure in certain
directions tended to show? The second problem was the real identity
of the young man calling himself his nephew, and also passing as the
nephew of Mrs. Morrice by the marriage of her sister to the brother of
the mysterious baronet.

The latter of the two puzzles was in the capable hands of Sellars. Much
would depend upon the result of that interview with the friend of Mrs.
Morrice’s youth, Alma Buckley. And the result depended upon the woman
herself. First of all, had she any knowledge of Lettice Larchester
after they had parted company at the little village of Brinkstone
sufficiently intimate to include the details of her life between that
date and her marriage to the wealthy financier? If she knew them, was
she too staunch a friend to the companion of her youth to satisfy the
curiosity of a stranger, or could she be tempted to open her mouth by
a bribe of sufficient magnitude. If she were a venal person she would,
no doubt, require a considerable sum for any information she gave.

No large sums could be extracted from the meagre resources of Richard
Croxton. Anxious as he appeared to clear himself, he could not be
expected to reduce himself to penury for an investigation which might
not lead to any clear evidence of his innocence. Even if Alma Buckley
knew the real identity of Archie Brookes and sold the knowledge for
an agreed sum of money, the fact of proving him an impostor would not
necessarily acquit Croxton of the suspicions resting upon him.

In that case the only person to whom application could be made would be
Morrice himself. And that would entail immediate avowal of what Sellars
had found out; and it might be that such an immediate avowal might be
a little too precipitate for Lane’s plans. Anyway, in that direction
he could do nothing till he knew the result of his lieutenant’s
negotiations with this middle-aged actress.

The further investigations into the case of Sir George he was for the
present keeping in his own hands. Later on he must tackle that of
Archie Brookes, not as regards his antecedents, but his expenditure and
the source of his income. Popular rumour credited Sir George with the
financial support of his alleged nephew. Well, a certain light upon
that portion of the problem had been thrown by Rosabelle’s statement of
the conversation in her aunt’s boudoir which she had overheard.

It was evident, even from the little she had gathered, that money was
the topic of that conversation; equally evident that Mrs. Morrice had
contributed large sums to the young man’s support. But however generous
her allowance, his supposed aunt could not alone maintain the burden
of young Brookes’s lavish expenditure as detailed by Simmons, who had
the information from a reliable source. He must have other resources,
and the nature and extent of those resources must be discovered.

Lane felt he would like to discuss this matter in strict confidence
with somebody as clever as himself. Sellars was very intelligent in his
own way, had a wonderful nose for investigation when he was once put
on the right track, when, to use a hunting metaphor, he had picked up
the scent. But he lacked experience and he was not very imaginative—he
had little faculty of anticipating facts, in contrast to Lane, who had
moments of inspiration which guided him instinctively in a puzzling
labyrinth.

Casting about in his mind for a helpful confidant, he thought at once
of his old friend MacKenzie, who now occupied a prominent position at
Scotland Yard. They had joined the Force together as young men, had
risen together, step by step, till separation came when Lane decided to
set up for himself. Of the two, Lane was slightly the better man, owing
to the particular streak of imagination—that frequency of inspiration
to which allusion has been made. But MacKenzie was only slightly
inferior; very sound, very painstaking, very logical.

There was perfect confidence between the two men. If MacKenzie wanted
counsel or sometimes assistance from Lane, he applied to him without
hesitation; and his friend as frequently availed himself of the shrewd
Scotchman’s powers of analysis and deduction. There was nothing the
two men enjoyed more than a long yarn over their experiences, to the
accompaniment of a good cigar and a stimulating dose of sound whisky.

“Ah, glad to see you, my boy, it’s a little time since we met,” was
MacKenzie’s greeting to his old friend and comrade, uttered in his
rather broad Scotch, which need not be reproduced here. “We are rather
quiet at the moment, nothing very exciting, just a few simple little
things. I hope you have got something really worth taking trouble
about.”

“I’ve got in hand one of the most remarkable cases I think I’ve ever
had in my life,” was Lane’s reply, and he straightway plunged into a
full recital of the Morrice mystery and the salient facts connected
with it.

His friend listened with the deepest attention, and when it was
finished the two men engaged in a long and animated discussion,
exhausting the arguments for and against the various hypotheses that
were thrown out first by the one and then by the other.

“Well, now, about this Clayton-Brookes,” said MacKenzie presently.
“I think I can give you a little assistance. We’ve had him under
observation since a little after you left us, and that’s a few years
ago now.”

“Ah!” Lane drew a deep breath. He was glad that he had paid this visit
to his old friend and wished that he had come sooner.

The Scotchman waved his big hand round his comfortable, roomy
apartment. “I wouldn’t care to say it outside these four walls, and
not to more than a few inside them, because we’ve nothing but very
substantial conjecture, and up to the present we’ve not been able to
lay a finger on him, he’s so devilish clever. But there’s no doubt he’s
a ‘wrong ’un.’”

“Do you mean actually a crook?” queried Lane.

MacKenzie nodded his massive head. “Anyway, the friend of crooks; he’s
been observed in some very queer company quite outside of his own
proper beat, which we know is the West End and the fashionable clubs
and a few smart and semi-smart houses. We know birds of a feather flock
together, and men are known by the company they keep.”

So Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the elegant man-about-town, led a double
life then—associating at one end of the scale with the fashionable and
semi-fashionable denizens of the west, at the other with certain flashy
members of the underworld.

MacKenzie proceeded to relate that their attention had been first
attracted to him by a series of burglaries committed at certain country
houses and hotels, from the owners of and visitors at which valuable
jewellery and articles of plate had been stolen. At three of the houses
in question he had actually been a guest at the time of the robberies,
and with regard to the others, he had been a visitor a little time
previously. The theory was that he took advantage of his opportunities
to spy out the position of the land, to furnish the actual thieves with
plans of the interior of the different mansions at which he had stayed,
and give details of the jewellery belonging to the various guests.
It was curious, to say the least, that robberies should occur, as it
seemed, automatically either during his actual visits or very shortly
after them.

Further evidence was afforded by the fact that he had frequently been
observed in the company of certain high-class crooks who engineered and
financed various criminal schemes, the practical working of which was
left to subordinates.

Lane could not say he was surprised overmuch, he had long ago come to
the conclusion that there was something very mysterious about this
supposed man of wealth and substance, who could purchase a thousand
pound car one day, and be scared out of his wits on another lest a
cheque for a paltry thirty pounds should be dishonoured.

“But as I say,” concluded MacKenzie, “he’s as artful as a monkey, and
we can’t get evidence enough to connect him with any one of the actual
thefts. But there is the coincidence I have mentioned, and that’s
evidence for us, although it wouldn’t do for a judge and jury.”

“And what about the young man—his supposed nephew?” asked Lane.

“Oh, we’ve had him under observation as well, and, of course, he must
be mixed up with Sir George in some way or another, but we don’t think
in these particular things. They see each other pretty nearly every
day, but they appear to lead different lives. Young Brookes doesn’t go
very much into the same sort of society; he doesn’t stay at country
houses, seems on a bit lower plane than the baronet. But I’ve no doubt
they run some little show of their own together.”

“Do you know anything about his antecedents before he came on the scene
as Sir George’s nephew?”

“Yes, we know a bit. He was a clerk in a City warehouse before Sir
George took him on. He was living then with a woman who had apparently
brought him up from a child.”

“Do you know the name of the woman?” Lane felt he was on the track of
something, but he was more than startled at the answer. “But of course,
you would learn that.”

“Yes, she is a music-hall artist of a third or fourth-rate type, but
pretty well known in the profession. _She is called Alma Buckley._”

CHAPTER XVII

LANE VISITS RICHARD

Alma Buckley, the friend of Lettice Larchester’s youth, the woman whom
Sellars was proposing to interview at the earliest opportunity! Truly,
the actors who had first played their parts with the small village
of Brinkstone for their stage so many years ago, were apparently
still in close connection. Well, Sellars must be apprised of this new
development in the situation before he saw the music-hall artist; it
would certainly strengthen his hand in case the lady proved obstinate.

Reviewing the position of affairs very carefully after his interview
with his old friend MacKenzie, Lane came to the conclusion that the
time had arrived when young Croxton ought to be told of what had been
discovered so far. He was not quite sure that Morrice ought not also to
be put in possession of the facts. But he was going to leave him to the
last; it was rather a delicate matter having to tell him in cold blood
that his wife, in conjunction with Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the
mysterious baronet about whom he had made a very important discovery,
was countenancing, from some motive, the rank imposture of young Archie
Brookes.

He did not think it politic to be too frank with Rosabelle, sweet and
sensible as she was, much as he liked her personally. She was young
and inexperienced, romantically and passionately in love, and, he
thought, a little inclined to be rash and impulsive. She might find
it impossible to keep her own counsel, and blurt out what she knew in
quarters where he least wanted anything to be known.

Up to the present he had not seen Richard in the affair, although
he was actually employed by him, all the negotiations having been
conducted through Rosabelle, owing to a certain sensitiveness on the
young man’s part. This was naturally accounted for by the fact of the
very damaging evidence against him. He could not help feeling in his
heart that, although it was the detective’s business to prove his
innocence, he must from the nature of the circumstances start with a
very strong presumption of his guilt. Moreover, he might think it a
piece of rather audacious bluff on the young man’s part, designed to
throw dust in the eyes of Morrice, from whom he knew he was quite safe
so far as criminal proceedings were concerned.

When therefore Lane walked into the little parlour of the cottage at
Petersham the day after the interview at Scotland Yard with MacKenzie,
after having apprised Croxton by a telegram that he was coming to see
him, the young man received him with a certain embarrassment.

The detective went to the point at once. “I thought it was about time
we met, Mr. Croxton,” he began. When Lane had once made up his mind
that the time had arrived for abandoning his usual reticence, he did so
whole-heartedly. And his manner to-day was perfectly cordial, the more
especially as he perceived Richard’s embarrassment, and, of course, was
shrewd enough to divine the cause of it.

As briefly as he could, and with admirable lucidity, he narrated to his
attentive listener all the things that had come to light since he had
taken up the investigation; the brief history of Mrs. Morrice’s life in
the little village of Brinkstone where she had made the acquaintance
of Archibald Brookes the elder, and no doubt that of the two other
brothers, Charles and the present Sir George; her close friendship for
a few months with Alma Buckley; the discovery from perfectly reliable
evidence that young Archie Brookes was neither Sir George’s nephew nor
her own, although it served their purpose to pass him off as such;
the admission by Mr. Morrice that he had lost or mislaid the original
memorandum containing a full description of the mechanism of the
safe; the fact that Archie Brookes had been brought up by the woman
Alma Buckley, and had, previously to his adoption by Sir George, been
engaged in a humble mercantile occupation.

There were a few things he did not mention, one of them being the
fact that Sir George was suspected at Scotland Yard of being engaged
in certain criminal enterprises with some leading spirits of the
underworld. Also he made no mention of the anonymous letter. For the
present he kept all this in reserve.

Needless to say that Richard was much astounded at these revelations,
especially at the fact of the imposture of young Archie Brookes, with
Mrs. Morrice’s connivance, and the loss of the important memorandum
relating to the safe.

“You have not told anything of this to Miss Sheldon,” was his first
comment. “Or, if you have done so, it would be under the seal of
secrecy, as otherwise she would have taken me into her confidence.”

“No, I have not said a word to Miss Sheldon,” was Lane’s answer. “To
tell you the truth, Mr. Croxton, in our profession we are not too
prone to make confidantes of women. We respect their good and noble
qualities, but we distrust their impulsiveness, their incapacity to
keep a secret where secrecy is of vital importance.”

Croxton was bound to agree with this general estimate. Women were by
temperament unfitted to be the coadjutors of men in transactions of
this special nature.

“Now, I have told you that Mr. Morrice asked me to allow him to be
joined in this investigation, and I consented because it did not
seem to prejudice your interests in any way, the aim of both being
to discover the guilty party. Now, it seems to me that the time has
arrived, or will very shortly be approaching, when it will be my
painful duty to inform him of his wife’s singular conduct in passing
off this young man, brought up by the woman Alma Buckley, as her
nephew. Before doing so, there is one contingency which we ought
to anticipate, although I consider it a very unlikely one. Is Mr.
Morrice himself a party to the deception? Is he already aware of it,
and has acquiesced in it from some motive satisfactory to himself?
From your close association with him, you must be well acquainted with
his character, his habits of thought, his views of what are right and
wrong. Do you think it likely that he would from any motives be a
consenting party to such a fraud?”

And Richard’s answer was emphatic. Rupert Morrice was one of the
whitest men he had ever known, abhorrent of deceit and chicanery
in any form, high-minded and honourable to a fault, just a little
intolerant perhaps of weakness in others. Even in his business life,
his notions of rectitude were considered by those who knew him best
almost quixotic, and in private life his code of morality was just as
stringent. Even if he loved his wife with a passionate devotion, he
would never have tacitly suffered such a thing as this. And everybody
knew that while he treated Mrs. Morrice with the utmost respect and
consideration, ardent love played no part in their relations. They made
no pretence at being other than a very ordinary couple who jogged along
placidly enough.

After a little further conversation the interview terminated, leaving
the two men mutually pleased with each other. Lane thought that Richard
seemed a very straightforward, transparent sort of young fellow with
whom it was very difficult to associate a criminal enterprise of such
depth and cunning. And Dick recognized in the detective a sound, solid
man, with great gifts for his difficult task, neither optimistic nor
pessimistic, but holding the just mean between the two extremes.

Lane was impressed by the shrewdness of the young man’s remark when
they parted. “If you can find who has got that memorandum, you will
discover the actual thief. I don’t believe in Mr. Morrice’s theory of
it having passed into the hands of the dustman.”

“Neither do I, Mr. Croxton. Well, good-bye for the present. I think for
the moment we will say nothing about these happenings to Miss Sheldon.
It is not because I wish to keep her in the dark, for I am sure she is
a good and noble girl. But for the moment, except to those actually
concerned, secrecy is imperative. A chance word, a chance look, even a
gesture might convey a warning where I do not wish it to be conveyed.
You understand.”

Yes, Richard thoroughly understood. He hated to keep anything from his
beloved Rosabelle, who had stood by him so staunchly in these dark
hours. But the detective was right, women cannot control their feelings
like men, especially where their deepest emotions are concerned.

Lane had perhaps been more frank in his statement of the facts than
illuminating in his deductions from them, if indeed he had suffered
himself to draw from them any deductions of a very positive nature. But
the young man felt much more cheerful after that visit. He felt quite
sure that if the detective had started with suspicions of him, he had
dropped them by now, or his manner could not have been so cordial. He
was certain that was not assumed.

This keen and patient investigator had certainly made a series of
remarkable discoveries, it was almost impossible that nothing would
result from them. It was easy to see that he was not a man who would
tell you what was passing in his mind till the decisive moment for
revelation had come. No doubt, in his own quiet way, he was drawing
his net tighter and tighter. Would he draw it so closely at the end
that the real criminal could not escape from its meshes? And would
he, Richard Croxton, be rehabilitated in the sight of all men? Would
the day come when Rupert Morrice would ask his pardon for his unjust
suspicions, his harsh treatment, for having branded the son of his old
sweetheart as a thief?

On his return from Petersham to his office, Lane found Sellars waiting
for him by appointment. To this keen-witted young man he detailed
the three fresh incidents that had occurred in so short a space—the
conversation between Mrs. Morrice and her supposed nephew, overheard
by Rosabelle; the fact that Sir George was under the close observation
of Scotland Yard, the further startling fact that Archie Brookes had
been brought up in the home of Alma Buckley. He wound up with the
information that he had dispatched an anonymous letter to Rupert
Morrice, the contents of which he trusted would induce the financier to
start a searching investigation on his own account.

“By Jove, that was a fine idea, Lane, and got you out of an awkward
situation,” said Sellars in a tone of admiration. “If he finds what, no
doubt, we expect him to find, there will be trouble in Deanery Street.
For, although I can’t pretend to know very much about him, he strikes
me as just the kind of man who could be as hard as nails in certain
circumstances.”

“Yes, I should say it was so,” Lane agreed. “Young Croxton, with whom
I had a long talk to-day, tells me that he is the soul of honour and
rectitude, that he has no toleration of wrong-doing in others, being
so exempt from weaknesses himself. He gives me that impression too—the
sort of man who would sacrifice his own son if he thought justice
demanded it.”

Sellars had no petty jealousy of the other man’s superior powers in the
line in which Lane was a master, and he, comparatively speaking, only
a promising pupil. But he did occasionally fancy that he could see a
point which the master, perhaps through carelessness, had overlooked.
He thought he saw one now.

“That’s not quite true, is it? He firmly believed in young Croxton’s
guilt, believes in it still from what you have told me. But he didn’t
prosecute him. Not quite such a hard nut as we think him, perhaps.”

But Lane was not to be worsted in argument by his nimble-minded young
pupil. “I didn’t say he was out for revenge, only for justice. He
satisfied justice by turning him out of the house and ruining his
career. And he did that in spite of the fact that he passionately loved
the mother.”

“Yes, I see your point. Perhaps he may shield his wife in the same
way, or rather a different way, keep up the appearance of a happy
couple in public, and treat her as a stranger in private. Well, the
next important move on the board is the meeting with Miss Buckley—that
information you have just got ought to give me a point in the game,
anyway.”

CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. MORRICE’S DRESS

When Rupert Morrice received that anonymous letter, which arrived
by the last post of the day on which it had been dropped in a City
pillar box, and was brought to him in his study, his first impulse
was to throw it in the fire. Like all men in prominent positions,
whose success in life is bound to raise up enemies, he had in his time
received many of these waspish and stinging epistles.

But on second thoughts he resolved that he would reflect a little
before he finally dismissed it from his mind. It was a very brief
epistle, but it contained a most definite suggestion. And something
in the exceedingly positive wording of it conveyed the impression that
the anonymous writer knew a good deal of what was going on in the
financier’s household.

 “SIR,—You are a man of such scrupulous integrity yourself, that you
 are apt to believe all those associated with you are possessed of
 similar high-mindedness. The last thing a prudent man should do is to
 put a blind trust in those of his own household, for it will be in
 these that he will most often be bitterly disappointed. I have reason
 to know that Mrs. Morrice has for a long time past been spending
 large sums of money in a certain direction, which could not possibly