Chapter II: Part 2

His lordship pondered, a horrible fear growing within him.

“Yes, perhaps you’re right, Lewinstein,” he said, “we’ll go in.”

He put the key in the door and turned it. The room was in darkness.

“Are you there?” squeaked his lordship in such a tone of consternation that Lewinstein could have laughed.

There was a click and the lights went on, but the room was empty.

Lord Claythorpe’s first glance was to the safes. Apparently they were closed, but on three of them was a square label, and Lewinstein was the first to see and understand the significance of that sign.

“What is it? What is it?” said Lord Claythorpe in a shrill tremolo, pointing with shaking fingers to the labels.

“The visiting card of Four Square Jane!” said Lewinstein.

III

Chief Superintendent Dawes, of Scotland Yard, was a comparatively young man, considering the important position he held. It was the boast of his department--Peter himself did very little talking about his achievements--that never once, after he had picked up a trail, was Peter ever baffled.

A clean-shaven, youngish looking man, with grey hair at his temples, Peter took a philosophical view of crime and criminals, holding neither horror towards the former, nor malice towards the latter.

If he had a passion at all it was for the crime which contained within itself a problem. Anything out of the ordinary, or anything bizarre fascinated him, and it was one of the main regrets of his life that it had never once fallen to his lot to conduct an investigation into the many Four Square mysteries which came to the Metropolitan police.

It was after the affair at Lord Claythorpe’s that Peter Dawes was turned loose to discover and apprehend this girl criminal, and he welcomed the opportunity to take charge of a case which had always interested him. To the almost hysterical telephone message Scotland Yard had received from Lord Claythorpe Peter did not pay too much attention. He realized that it was of the greatest importance that he should keep his mind unhampered and unprejudiced by the many and often contradictory “clues” which everyone who had been affected by Four Square Jane’s robberies insisted on discussing with him.

He interviewed an agitated man at four o’clock in the morning, and Lord Claythorpe was frantic.

“It’s terrible, terrible,” he wailed, “what are you people at Scotland Yard doing that you allow these villainies to continue? It is monstrous!”

Peter Dawes, who was not unused to outbursts on the part of the victimized, listened to the squeal with equanimity.

“As I understand it, this woman came here with two men who pretended to have her in custody?”

“Two detectives!” moaned his lordship.

“If they called themselves detectives, then you were deceived,” said Peter with a smile. “They persuaded you to allow the prisoner and one of her captors to spend ten minutes in the library where your jewels are kept. Now tell me, when the crime occurred had your guests left?”

Lord Claythorpe nodded wearily.

“They had all gone,” he said, “except my friend Lewinstein.”

Peter made an examination of the room, and a gleam of interest came into his eyes when he saw the curious labels. He examined the floor and the window-bars, and made as careful a search of the floor as possible.

“I can’t do much at this hour,” he said. “At daylight I will come back and have a good look through this room. Don’t allow anybody in to dust or to sweep it.”

He returned at nine o’clock, and to his surprise, Lord Claythorpe, whom he had expected would be in bed and asleep, was waiting for him in the library, and wearing a dressing-gown over his pyjamas.

“Look at this,” exclaimed the old man, and waved a letter wildly.

Dawes took the document and read:

“You are very mean, old man! When you lost your Venetian armlet you offered a reward of ten thousand pounds. I sent that armlet to a hospital greatly in need of funds, and the doctor who presented my gift to the hospital was entitled to the full reward. I have taken your pearls because you swindled the hospital out of six thousand pounds. This time you will not get your property back.”

There was no signature, but the familiar mark, roughly drawn, the four squares and the centred “J.”

“This was written on a Yost,” said Peter Dawes, looking at the document critically. “The paper is the common stuff you buy in penny packages--so is the envelope. How did it come?”

“It came by district messenger,” said Lord Claythorpe. “Now what do you think, officer? Is there any chance of my getting those pearls back?”

“There is a chance, but it is a pretty faint one,” said Peter.

He went back to Scotland Yard, and reported to his chief.

“So far as I can understand, the operations of this woman began about twelve months ago. She has been constantly robbing, not the ordinary people who are subjected to this kind of victimization, but people with bloated bank balances, and so far as my investigations go, bank balances accumulated as a direct consequence of shady exploitation companies.”

“What does she do with the money?” asked the Commissioner curiously.

“That’s the weird thing about it,” replied Dawes. “I’m fairly certain that she donates very large sums to all kinds of charities. For example, after the Lewinstein burglary a big crêche in the East End of London received from an anonymous donor the sum of four thousand pounds. Simultaneously, another sum of four thousand was given to one of the West End hospitals. After the Talbot burglary three thousand pounds, which represented nearly the whole of the amount stolen, was left by some unknown person to the West End Maternity Hospital. I have an idea that we shall discover she is somebody who is in close touch with hospital work, and that behind these crimes there is some quixotic notion of helping the poor at the expense of the grossly rich.”

“Very beautiful,” said the Chief drily, “but unfortunately her admirable intentions do not interest us. In our eyes she is a common thief.”

“She is something more than that,” said Peter quietly; “she is the cleverest criminal that has come my way since I have been associated with Scotland Yard. This is the one thing one has dreaded, and yet one has hoped to meet--a criminal with a brain.”

“Has anybody seen this woman?” said the Commissioner interested.

“They have, and they haven’t,” replied Peter Dawes. “That sounds cryptic, but it only means that she has been seen by people who could not recognize her again. Lewinstein saw her, Claythorpe saw her, but she was veiled and unrecognizable. My difficulty, of course, is to discover where she is going to strike next. Even if she is only hitting at the grossly rich she has forty thousand people to strike at. Obviously, it is impossible to protect them all. But somehow----” he hesitated.

“Yes?” said the Chief.

“Well, a careful study of her methods helps me a little,” replied Dawes. “I have been looking round to discover who the next victim will be. He must be somebody very wealthy, and somebody who makes a parade of his wealth, and I have fined down the issue to about four men. Gregory Smith, Carl Sweiss, Mr. Thomas Scott, and John Tresser. I am inclined to believe it is Tresser she is after. You see, Tresser has made a great fortune, not by the straightest means in the world, and he hasn’t forgotten to advertise his riches. He is the fellow who bought the Duke of Haslemere’s house, and his collection of pictures--you will remember the stuff that has been written about.”

The Chief nodded.

“There is a wonderful Romney, isn’t there?”

“That’s the picture,” replied Dawes. “Tresser, of course, doesn’t know a picture from a gas-stove. He knows that the Romney is wonderful, but only because he has been told so. Moreover, he is the fellow who has been giving the newspapers his views on charity--told them that he never spent a penny on public institutions, and never gave away a cent that he didn’t get a cent’s worth of value for. A thing like that would excite Jane’s mind; and then, in addition, the actual artistic and monetary value of the Romney is largely advertised--why, I should imagine that the attraction is almost irresistible!”

Mr. Tresser was a difficult man to meet. His multitudinous interests in the City of London kept him busy from breakfast time until late at night. When at last Peter ran him down in a private dining-room at the Ritz-Carlton, he found the multi-millionaire a stout, red-haired man with a long clean-shaven upper lip, and a cold blue eye.

The magic of Peter Dawes’ card secured him an interview.

“Sit down--sit down,” said Mr. Tresser hurriedly, “what’s the trouble, hey?”

Peter explained his errand, and the other listened with interest, as to a business proposition.

“I’ve heard all about that Jane,” said Mr. Tresser cheerfully, “but she’s not going to get anything from me--you can take my word! As to the Rumney--is that how you pronounce it?--well, as to that picture, don’t worry!”

“But I understand you are giving permission to the public to inspect your collection.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Tresser, “but everybody who sees them must sign a visitor’s book, and the pictures are guarded.”

“Where do you keep the Romney at night--still hanging?” asked Peter, and Mr. Tresser laughed.

“Do you think I’m a fool,” he said, “no, it goes into my strong room. The Duke had a wonderful strong room which will take a bit of opening.”

Peter Dawes did not share the other’s confidence in the efficacy of bolts and bars. He knew that Four Square Jane was both an artist and a strategist. Of course, she might not be bothered with pictures, and, anyway, a painting would be a difficult thing to get away unless it was stolen by night, which would be hardly likely.

He went to Haslemere House, which was off Berkeley Square, a great rambling building, with a long, modern picture-gallery, and having secured admission, signed his name and showed his card to an obvious detective, he was admitted to the long gallery. There was the Romney--a beautiful example of the master’s art.

Peter was the only sightseer, but it was not alone to the picture that he gave his attention. He made a brief survey of the room in case of accidents. It was long and narrow. There was only one door--that through which he had come--and the windows at both ends were not only barred, but a close wire-netting covered the bars, and made entrance and egress impossible by that way. The windows were likewise long and narrow, in keeping with the shape of the room, and there were no curtains behind which an intruder might hide. Simple spring roller blinds were employed to exclude the sunlight by day.

Peter went out, passed the men, who scrutinized him closely, and was satisfied that if Four Square Jane made a raid on Mr. Tresser’s pictures, she would have all her work cut out to get away with it. He went back to Scotland Yard, busied himself in his office, and afterwards went out for lunch. He came back to his office at three o’clock, and had dismissed the matter of Four Square Jane from his mind, when an urgent call came through. It was a message from the Assistant Chief Commissioner.

“Will you come down to my office at once, Dawes?” said the voice, and Peter sprinted down the long corridor to the bureau of the Chief Commissioner.

“Well, Dawes, you haven’t had to wait long,” he was greeted.

“What do you mean?” said Peter.

“I mean the precious Romney is stolen,” said the Chief, and Peter could only stare at him.

“When did this happen?”

“Half an hour ago--you’d better get down to Berkeley Square, and make inquiries on the spot.”

Two minutes later, Peter’s little two-seater was nosing its way through the traffic, and within ten minutes he was in the hall of the big house interrogating the agitated attendants. The facts, as he discovered them, were simple.

At a quarter-past two, an old man wearing a heavy overcoat, and muffled up to the chin, came to the house, and asked permission to see the portrait gallery. He gave his name as “Thomas Smith.”

He was an authority on Romney, and was inclined to be garrulous. He talked to all the attendants, and seemed prepared to give a long-winded account of his experience, his artistic training, and the excellence of his quality as an art critic--which meant that he was the type of bore that most attendants have to deal with, and they very gladly cut short his monotonous conversation, and showed him the way to the picture gallery.

“Was he alone in the room?” asked Peter.

“Yes, sir.”

“And nobody went in with him?”

“No, sir.”

Peter nodded.

“Of course, the garrulity may have been intentional, and it may have been designed to scare away attendants, but go on.”

“The man went into the room, and was seen standing before the Romney in rapt contemplation. The attendants who saw him swore that at that time the Romney was in its frame. It hung on the level with the eyes; that is to say the top of the frame was about seven feet from the floor.

“Almost immediately after the attendants had looked in the old man came out talking to himself about the beauty of the execution. As he left the room, and came into the outer lobby, a little girl entered and also asked permission to go into the gallery. She signed her name ‘Ellen Cole’ in the visitors’ book.”

“What was she like?” said Peter.

“Oh, just a child,” said the attendant vaguely, “a little girl.”

Apparently the little girl walked into the saloon as the old man came out--he turned and looked at her, and then went on through the lobby, and out through the door. But before he got to the door, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and with it came about half a dozen silver coins, which were scattered on the marble floor of the vestibule. The attendants helped him to collect the money--he thanked them, his mind still with the picture apparently, for he was talking to himself all the time, and finally disappeared.

He had hardly left the house when the little girl came out and asked: “Which is the Romney picture?”

“In the centre of the room,” they told her, “immediately facing the door.”

“But there’s not a picture there,” she said, “there’s only an empty frame, and a funny kind of little black label with four squares.”

The attendants dashed into the room, and sure enough the picture had disappeared!

In the space where it had been, or rather on the wall behind the place, was the sign of Four Square Jane.

The attendants apparently did not lose their heads. One went straight to the telephone, and called up the nearest police station--the second went on in search of the old man. But all attempts to discover him proved futile. The constable on point duty at the corner of Berkeley Square had seen him get into a taxi-cab and drive away, but had not troubled to notice the number of the taxi-cab.

“And what happened to the little girl?” asked Peter.

“Oh, she just went away,” said the attendant; “she was here for some time, and then she went off. Her address was in the visitor’s book. There was no chance of her carrying the picture away--none whatever,” said the attendant emphatically. “She was wearing a short little skirt, and light summery things, and it was impossible to have concealed a big canvas like that.”

Peter went in to inspect the frame. The picture had been cut flush with the borders. He looked around, making a careful examination of the apartment, but discovered nothing, except, immediately in front of the picture, a long, white pin. It was the sort of pin that bankers use to fasten notes together. And there was no other clue.

Mr. Tresser took his loss very calmly until the newspapers came out with details of the theft. It was only then that he seemed impressed by its value, and offered a reward for its recovery.

The stolen Romney became the principal topic of conversation in clubs and in society circles. It filled columns of the newspapers, and exercised the imagination of some of the brightest young men in the amateur criminal investigation business. All the crime experts were gathered together at the scene of the happening and their theories, elaborate and ingenious, provided interesting subject matter for the speculative reader.

Peter Dawes, armed with the two addresses he had taken from the visitors’ book, the address of the old man and of the girl, went round that afternoon to make a personal investigation, only to discover that neither the learned Mr. Smith nor the innocent child were known at the addresses they had given.

Peter reported to headquarters with a very definite view as to how the crime was committed.

“The old man was a blind,” he said, “he was sent in to create suspicion and keep the eyes of the attendants upon himself. He purposely bored everybody with his long-winded discourse on art in order to be left alone. He went into the saloon knowing that his bulky appearance would induce the attendants to keep their eyes on him. Then he came out--the thing was timed beautifully--just as the child came in. That was the lovely plan.

“The money was dropped to direct all attention on the old man, and at that moment, probably, the picture was cut from its frame, and it was hidden. Where it was hidden, or how the girl got it out is a mystery. The attendants are most certain that she could not have had it concealed about her, and I have made experiments with a thick canvas cut to the size of the picture, and it certainly does seem that the picture would have so bulged that they could not have failed to have noticed it.”

“But who was the girl?”

“Four Square Jane!” said Peter promptly.

“Impossible!”

Peter smiled.

“It is the easiest thing in the world for a young girl to make herself look younger. Short frocks, and hair in plaits--and there you are! Four Square Jane is something more than clever.”

“One moment,” said the Chief, “could she have handed it through the window to somebody else?”

Peter shook his head.

“I have thought of that,” he said, “but the windows were closed and there was a wire-netting which made that method of disposal impossible. No, by some means or other she got the picture out under the noses of the attendants. Then she came out and announced innocently that she could not find the Romney picture--naturally there was a wild rush to the saloon. For three minutes no notice was being taken of the ‘child’.”

“Do you think one of the attendants was in collusion?”

“That is also possible,” said Peter, “but every man has a record of good, steady service. They’re all married men and none of them has the slightest thing against him.”

“And what will she do with the picture? She can’t dispose of it,” protested the Chief.

“She’s after the reward,” said Peter with a smile, “I tell you, Chief, this thing has put me on my mettle. Somehow, I don’t think I’ve got my hand on Jane yet, but I’m living on hopes.”

“After the reward,” repeated the Chief; “that’s pretty substantial. But surely you are going to fix her when she hands the picture over?”

“Not on your life,” replied Peter, and took out of his pocket a telegram and laid it on the table before the other. It read:

“The Romney will be returned on condition that Mr. Tresser undertakes to pay the sum of five thousand pounds to the Great Panton Street Hospital for Children. On his signing an agreement to pay this sum, the picture will be restored.

“Jane.”

“What did Tresser say about that?”

“Tresser agrees,” answered Peter, “and has sent a note to the secretary of the Great Panton Street Hospital to that effect. We are advertising the fact of his agreement very widely in the newspapers.”

At three o’clock that afternoon came another telegram, addressed this time to Peter Dawes--it annoyed him to know that the girl was so well informed that she was aware of the fact that he was in charge of the case.

“I will restore the picture at eight o’clock to-night. Be in the picture gallery, and please take all precautions. Don’t let me escape this time--The Four Square Jane.”

The telegram was handed in at the General Post Office.

Peter Dawes neglected no precaution. He had really not the faintest hope that he would make the capture, but it would not be his fault if Four Square Jane were not put under lock and key.

A small party assembled in the gloomy hall of Mr. Tresser’s own house.

Dawes and two detective officers, Mr. Tresser himself--he sucked at a big cigar and seemed the least concerned of those present--the three attendants, and a representative of the Great Panton Street Hospital were there.

“Do you think she’ll come in person?” asked Tresser. “I would rather like to see that Jane. She certainly put one over on me, but I bear her no ill-will.”

“I have a special force of police within call,” said Peter, “and the roads are watched by detectives, but I’m afraid I can’t promise you anything exciting. She’s too slippery for us.”

“Anyway, the messenger----” began Tresser.

Peter shook his head.

“The messenger may be a district messenger, though here again I have taken precautions--all the district messenger offices have been warned to notify Scotland Yard in the event of somebody coming with a parcel addressed here.”

Eight o’clock boomed out from the neighbouring church, but Four Square Jane had not put in an appearance. Five minutes later there came a ring at the bell, and Peter Dawes opened the door.

It was a telegraph boy.

Peter took the buff envelope and tore it open, read the message through carefully, and laughed--a hopeless, admiring laugh.

“She’s done it,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Tresser.

“Come in here,” said Peter.

He led the way into the picture gallery. There was the empty frame on the wall, and behind it the half-obliterated label which Four Square Jane had stuck.

He walked straight to the end of the room to one of the windows.

“The picture is here,” he said, “it has never left the room.”

He lifted his hand, and pulled at the blind cord, and the blind slowly revolved.

There was a gasp of astonishment from the gathering. For, pinned to the blind, and rolled up with it, was the missing Romney.

* * * * *

“I ought to have guessed when I saw the pin,” said Peter to his chief. It was quick work, but it was possible to do it.

“She cut out the picture, brought it to the end of the room, and pulled down the blind; pinned the top corners of the picture to the blind, and let it roll up again. Nobody thought of pulling that infernal thing down!”

“The question that worries me,” said the Chief, “is this--Who _is_ Four Square Jane?”

“That,” replied Peter, “is just what I am going to discover.”

IV

Mrs. Gordon Wilberforce was a large, yielding lady of handsome and aristocratic features and snow-white hair. It is true that she had not reached the age when one expected hair of that snowy whiteness, and there were people who told with brutal frankness a story that was not creditable to Mrs. Wilberforce.

According to these gossips the lady had attended the salon of a famous beauty doctor, who had endeavoured to restore Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair to the beautiful golden hue which was so attractive to her friends and admirers in the late eighties. But the beauty doctor had not had that success which his discreet advertisements seemed to guarantee. One half of Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair had come out green, and the other a deep pinky russet brown. Thereupon, Mrs. Wilberforce, with great heroism, had ordered the trembling hair-dresser to bleach without mercy.

And in course of time she appeared in her family circle. She explained that her hair had gone white in a night with the worry she had had from Joyce.

Joyce Wilberforce distressed her mother for many reasons. Not the least of these was the fact that her mother did not understand her, and Joyce did understand her mother.

They sat at breakfast in their little morning-room overlooking Hyde Park, Mrs. Wilberforce and her daughter, and the elder woman was very thoughtful.

“Joyce,” she said, “pay attention to what I am going to say, and try to keep your mind from wandering.”

“Yes, mother,” said the girl meekly.

“Do you remember that maid we discharged, Jane Briglow?”

“Jane Briglow?” said the girl, “yes, I remember her very well. You didn’t like her manner or something.”

“She gave herself airs,” said Mrs. Wilberforce tartly.

The girl’s lips curved in a smile. Joyce and her mother were never wholly in harmony. It was not the first time they had discussed Jane Briglow in the same spirit of antagonism which marked their present conversation.

“Jane was a good girl,” said Joyce quietly. “She was a little romantic, rather fond of sensational literature, but there was nothing wrong with her.”

Mrs. Wilberforce sniffed.

“I am glad you think so,” she said, and the girl looked up quickly.

“Why do you say that, mother?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “doesn’t it seem strange to you that this horrible burglar person should also be called Jane?”

Joyce laughed.

“It is not an uncommon name,” she said.

“But she is going about her work in an uncommon manner,” said her mother. “All the people she is robbing are personal friends of ours, or of dear Lord Claythorpe. I must say,” she went on with a little shiver of exasperation, “that you take your loss very well. I suppose you realize that a £50,000 necklace intended for you has disappeared?”

Joyce nodded.

“Purchased to deck the sacrifice,” she said ironically.

“Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Wilberforce, “sacrifice indeed! You are marrying Lord Claythorpe’s heir, and Lord Claythorpe was your uncle’s dearest friend.”

“He is not my dearest friend,” said the girl grimly in a sudden fit of exasperation. “Because one’s been brought up with a person, regarding him almost as a brother, that is no reason why one should marry him. In fact to the contrary. No one has yet accused me of being weak, but I should certainly lose all my self-respect if I allowed myself to be married off in this way.”

“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “that for a girl who has no other prospects of marriage, you are arguing with great passion. And short-sightedness,” she added.

“It isn’t a question of wanting to marry someone else,” said Joyce, after a perceptible pause, “it’s merely a question of not wanting to marry Francis.”

She walked across the room and picked up a silver-framed photograph of the young man under discussion.

“And I think I’m justified,” she concluded.

Mrs. Wilberforce was silent.

“After all, why shouldn’t I marry whom I choose,” said Joyce. “Don’t you realize that Lord Claythorpe is being horribly selfish and that this marriage is being designed for his own purpose?”

“I realize one thing,” said Mrs. Wilberforce angrily, “and that is that you look like being pig-headed enough to ruin your own chances socially, and both of us financially. You know as well as I do, Joyce, that Lord Claythorpe is acting absolutely in accordance with your uncle’s will, and you cannot doubt that your uncle had your best interests at heart.”

“When uncle left his great fortune to me and made the provision that I should not marry anybody who was not the choice of Lord Claythorpe, the trustee of his estate, the poor dear old man thought he was protecting my interests, because he had a most childlike faith in Lord Claythorpe’s honesty. He never dreamt that Lord Claythorpe would choose his own idiot son!”

“Idiot!” gasped Mrs. Wilberforce, “that is an outrageous statement. He’s not one of the intellectuals, perhaps, but he’s a good boy, and one day will become Lord Claythorpe.”

“So far as I can see,” said the girl, “that’s his only virtue. You can turn the matter about as you like, mother, but there the fact remains. Unless I marry Francis Claythorpe I lose a great fortune. Lord Claythorpe can well afford to give me £50,000 necklaces!”

Mrs. Wilberforce smoothed her dress over her knees patiently.

“The provision was a very wise one, my dear,” she said, “otherwise you would have married that awful person Jamieson Steele. Imagine, a penniless engineer and a forger!”

The girl sprang to her feet, her face crimson.

“You shall not say that, mother,” she said sharply. “Jamieson did not forge Lord Claythorpe’s signature. The cheque which was presented and paid to Jamieson was signed by Lord Claythorpe, and if he repudiated his own signature he did it for his own purpose. He knew I was fond of Jamieson. It was cruel, terribly cruel!”

Mrs. Wilberforce raised her hands in protest.

“Do not let us have a scene,” she said, “my dear girl, think of all your money means to me. The years I’ve scrimped and saved to get you an education and put you in a position in society. Perhaps Jamieson was led astray----”

“I tell you he did _not_ do it,” cried the girl. “The charge against him was made by Lord Claythorpe in order to discredit him and give him a reason for refusing his consent to our marriage.”

Mrs. Wilberforce shrugged her ample shoulders.

“Well, there’s no sense in going into the question now,” she said, “let us forget all about it. Jamieson has disappeared, and I hope he is living a virtuous life in the Colonies.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders. She knew it was useless to continue any argument with her mother. She changed the subject.

“What is this about Jane Briglow?” she asked. “Have you seen her?”

Mrs. Wilberforce shook her head.

“No,” she said, “but in the night I have been thinking things out, and I have decided that Jane knows something about these crimes. From all the descriptions I have had of this girl I can reach no other conclusion than that she has something to do with the burglaries.”

The girl laughed.

“Don’t you think Jamieson may also have had something to do with them?” she asked satirically, and Mrs. Wilberforce tightened her lips.

“You have a very bitter tongue, Joyce; I am rather sorry for poor Francis.”

The girl rose and walked across to the window, staring out across the park, and Mrs. Wilberforce eyed her anxiously.

“You are a queer girl, Joyce,” she said, “you are going to be married to-morrow, and to-morrow you will be a rich woman in your own right. One might imagine that you were going to be hanged.”

A maid came in at this moment.

“Lord Claythorpe and Mr. Claythorpe,” she announced, and Mrs. Wilberforce arose with a beaming face.

The youth who followed his lordship into the room was tall and lank. A small weak face on an absurdly small head, round shoulders, long and awkward arms--if Joyce did not look like a bride in prospective, this young man certainly had no appearance of being a bridegroom of the morrow.

He gave Mrs. Wilberforce a limp hand and shuffled across to the girl.

“I say,” he said in a high-pitched voice, which ended in a little giggle, “awfully bad luck about losing those pearls, what?”

The girl looked at him thoughtfully.

“How do you feel about getting married, Francis?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely; “it really doesn’t make much difference to me. Of course, I shall have to explain to quite a lot of people, and there’ll be a lot of heartaches and all that sort of thing.”

She could have laughed, but she kept a straight face.

“Yes, I suppose I have disappointed a number of very charming friends of yours,” she said drily, “still, they can’t all have this paragon.”

“That’s what I say,” said Mr. Claythorpe, and then giggled again, his hand straying to his pocket.

This young man had no small opinion of his own powers of fascination, and was, by his own standards, something of a Lothario.

“What’s so jolly amusing,” he said with a little snigger, “is that not only the people one knows are upset, but quite a lot of unknown people. People, or girls I have quite forgotten are terribly distressed about it. You don’t mind if I show you a letter?” he asked mysteriously.

She shook her head.

He took an ornamental case from his pocket, opened it, and produced a heavily scented letter.

He unfolded the thick sheet of note-paper, and read:--

“I have only just read the terrible news that you are being married to-morrow. Won’t you see me once, just once, for the sake of the happy day long ago? I must see you before you are married. I must take farewell of you in person. Believe me, I will never trouble you again. You used to praise my pretty face; won’t you see it again for the last time? If you will, put an ‘agony’ advertisement in _The Times_, and I will meet you at the Albert Gate, Regents Park, at nine o’clock to-morrow night.”

“That’s to-night,” explained the young man.

“Who is she?” asked the girl curiously.

“The Lord knows!” said Mr. Claythorpe with a cheerful smirk; “of course, dear old thing, I’ll have to see her. I put the advertisement in. You’re sure you don’t mind?”

She shook her head.

“I haven’t told the governor,” said the young man, “and I want you to keep it dark. You see he’s a bit old-fashioned in things like that, and he hasn’t got your broad outlook, Joyce. And for heaven’s sake, don’t breathe a word to Father Maggerley; you know what a stick he is!”

“Father Maggerley,” repeated the girl, “oh, yes, we’re lunching with him, aren’t we?”

“Personally,” the young man babbled on, “I think it’s a little indecent for a bride and bridegroom to lunch with the fellow who’s going to tie them up. But the governor’s frightfully keen on Maggerley. He’s even dining with us to-night, as well. I hope he doesn’t give me any good advice, or I shall have a few words to say to him.”

He braced his lean shoulders with a determined air, and again the girl had to suppress a smile.

She went up to her room soon after, and did not appear until the car had arrived at the door to carry them to Ciro’s. Father Maggerley, who was the fifth member of the party, was a tall aesthetic man, reputed to be very “high church,” and suspected of leanings towards the papacy.

It was not remarkable that the conversation turned upon Four Square Jane. It was a subject in which Lord Claythorpe was tremendously interested, and as he listened to Mrs. Wilberforce’s theories, his lined yellow face betrayed signs of unusual alertness.

“The police will have her sooner or later,” he said viciously, “you can be sure of that.”

Francis was bubbling over with good humour. The girl had interrupted him in the morning at the point when he was telling her news, which was no news at all, since he had imparted the information, not once but a dozen times in the course of the past week, that he carried in his pocket the wedding ring which was to unite them. He took it out and showed it to her, a thin circle of shining platinum, but Joyce was not enthusiastic over its beauties, and after a long exposition of his own good taste in jewellery, Francis rambled on to another and equally uninteresting subject.

For all that, the lunch was not without interest to Joyce. For again and again the conversation returned to Four Square Jane, and, as Joyce had admitted to her mother that morning, she had a certain sympathy with this criminal because her activities had been directed towards people who were particularly loathsome from Joyce’s own point of view.

That night the amorous Francis set forth in a spirit of high adventure to meet his unknown adorer. He came to his father’s dinner table late, in a tremble of excitement, and blurted forth his version of the meeting.

“Do you mean to say you didn’t know her?” asked Lord Claythorpe disapprovingly.

“No, sir,” said the young man. “I couldn’t see her face. She was veiled. She was sitting in a car, and beckoned me from the side-walk. I got in and had a little chat with her, and then”--with a fine air of unconcern--“she just put her arms round my neck, held me tight for a second, and then said, ‘I can stand no more, Francis; go.’”

“Very singular,” said the Reverend Mr. Maggerley thoughtfully, “very singular indeed. Poor soul, possibly she will now seek a life of seclusion in one of our religious houses.”

“It was a stupid thing to do,” rapped Lord Claythorpe, “meeting a person you didn’t know. I am surprised at you, Francis, on your wedding eve.”

Mr. Maggerley was probably more impressed by the incident than his patron. As he walked home that night, to his house in Kensington, he evolved a sermon from the incident--a sermon which could not fail to gain a measure of comment from the lay press. He reached his austere dwelling, and was received by a butler of solemn and respectful mien.

“Sister Agatha is waiting for you in the study, sir,” he said in a low voice.

“Sister Agatha?” repeated Mr. Maggerley. “I don’t remember Sister Agatha.”

This was not remarkable, for there were many sisters attached to the various Orders in which Father Maggerley was interested, and it was impossible that he should remember their names.

He went up to his study wondering what urgent business could bring a sister of charity to his house at this hour. The light was burning in the study, but Sister Agatha was not there. He summoned the butler, and that gentleman was frankly nonplussed.

“It’s very extraordinary, sir, but I showed the sister in here, and I’ve been in the hall, or in view of the hall ever since.”

“Well, she’s not here now,” said Father Maggerley humorously. “I’m afraid, Jenkins, you’ve been sleeping.”

A thought occurred to him, an alarming thought, and he made a rapid inspection of the study. He was relieved to find that not so much as a newspaper had been moved, that his priceless Venetian glasses were untouched, so he dismissed Sister Agatha from his mind and went to bed.

The marriage of Mr. Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce was one of the social events of the season. The big porch of St. Giles was crowded with a fashionable congregation. The girl, looking paler than usual, came to the church with her mother, and was received by an uncomfortable-looking bridegroom and by Lord Claythorpe, who did not disguise his good cheer and satisfaction. To-day represented to him the culmination of a long-planned scheme. Not even the grey envelope which was in his pocket, and which he had found on his breakfast table that morning, distressed him, although it bore the curious signature of Four Square Jane. The letter read:--

“You are very mean, Lord Claythorpe. To-day, by sacrificing the happiness of a young girl, you are endeavouring to bring riches to your almost bankrupt estate. You have betrayed the trust of one who had faith in you and have utilised the provisions of his foolish will in order to enrich your family. There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

“Pooh!” said Lord Claythorpe on reading this. “Pooh!” he said again, and his son looked up over his cup and asked for an explanation. That explanation Lord Claythorpe peremptorily refused.

* * * * *

Francis Claythorpe moved forward to meet the girl and, contrary to the usual custom, walked up the aisle with her, and took his place at the altar rails. As he did so, the Reverend Father Maggerley entered from the side door and paced slowly to the centre of the church.

“The ring, Francis?” muttered Lord Claythorpe in his son’s ear, and Francis took a little case from his pocket with a satisfied grin.

He opened it and gasped.

“It’s gone!” he said in so loud a voice that everyone in the neighbouring pews could hear.

Lord Claythorpe did not curse, but he said something very forcibly. It was Mrs. Wilberforce whose presence of mind saved a situation which might otherwise have proved rather embarrassing. She slipped her own wedding-ring off, and passed it to the young man, and the girl watched the proceedings with a smile of indifference.

As young Lord Claythorpe fumbled with the ring the vestry door opened and someone beckoned to the clergyman. The Reverend Father Maggerley, with a little frown at this indecorous interruption, paced back to the door in his stately fashion and disappeared. He was gone some time, and there was a little murmur of wonder in the congregation when he reappeared and called Lord Claythorpe towards him.

And then to the amazement of the congregation, the whole wedding party disappeared into the vestry. It was a queer situation which met them. On the table of the vestry lay a long envelope inscribed--“Marriage License of the Honourable Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce.”

“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Mr. Maggerley in a troubled voice, as he picked up the envelope, “but something unaccountable has happened.”

“What is it?” said Claythorpe sharply.

“This license,” began the clergyman.

“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before yesterday. It is a special license--there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”

Mr. Maggerley could not answer immediately.

“It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it. Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet----”

“And yet what?” wailed Mrs. Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heavens’ sake, what has happened?”

For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope, opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe.

“That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore under his breath, for instead of the license were the four familiar squares.

“Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?”

Mr. Maggerley shook his head.

“I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who had remained in his study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by anybody.

So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane!

V

Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, and a very gloomy Lord Claythorpe sat in conference in the latter gentleman’s City office. For Lord Claythorpe was a director of many companies, and had interests of a wide and varied character.

The detective sat at a table, with a little block of paper before him, jotting down notes from time to time, and there was a frown upon his face which suggested that his investigations were not going exactly as he could have wished them.

“There is the case,” said Lord Claythorpe. “The whole thing was a malicious act on the part of this wretched woman, directed against me, my son, and my niece.”

“Is Miss Joyce Wilberforce your niece?” asked the detective, and Lord Claythorpe hesitated.

“Well, she is not my niece,” he said at last. “Rather she was the niece of one of my dearest friends. He was an immensely wealthy man, and when he died he left the bulk of his property to his niece.”

The detective nodded.

“Where does your interest come in, Lord Claythorpe?” he asked.

“I am her legal guardian,” said his lordship, “although of course, she has a mother. That is to say, I am the trustee and sole executor of her estate, and there were one or two provisions especially made by my dear friend which gave me authority usually denied to trustees----”

“Such as the right of choosing her husband,” said the detective quietly, and it was Lord Claythorpe’s turn to frown.

“So you know something about this, do you?” he asked. “Yes, I have that right. It so happened that I chose my own son Francis as the best man for that position, and the lady was quite agreeable.”

“Indeed!” said the polite Peter. He consulted his notes. “As far as I understand, this mysterious person, whom Mrs. Wilberforce believes to be a discharged employee named Jane Briglow, after making several raids upon your property, reached the culmination of her audacity by robbing your son of his wedding-ring and then burgling the house of the parson who was to marry them and stealing the license, which had been granted by the Bishop of London.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Lord Claythorpe.

“And what of the wedding?” asked Peter. “There will be no difficulty of getting another license.”

Lord Claythorpe sniffed.

“The only difficulty is,” he said, “that the young lady is naturally prostrated by the humiliation which this villainous woman has thrust upon her. She was in such a state of collapse the following morning that her mother was compelled to take her--or rather, to send her--to a friend in the country. The wedding is postponed for, let us say, a month.”

“One other question,” asked the detective. “You say you suspect, in addition to Jane Briglow, a young man named Jamieson Steele, who was in a way engaged to Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”

“A fugitive from justice,” said his lordship emphatically. “And why you police fellows cannot catch him is beyond my understanding. The man forged my name----”

“I know all about that,” said the detective. “I had the records of the case looked out, and the particulars of the case were ’phoned to me here whilst you had gone upstairs to collect data concerning the previous robbery. As a matter of fact, although he is, as you may say, a fugitive from justice, having very foolishly run away, there is no evidence which would secure a conviction before a judge and jury. I suppose your lordship knows that?”

His lordship did not know that, and he expressed his annoyance in the usual manner--which was to abuse the police.

Peter Dawes went back to Scotland Yard, and consulted the officer who had been in charge of the forgery case.

“No, sir,” said that individual, “we have not a picture of Mr. Steele. But he was a quiet enough young fellow--a civil engineer, so far as my memory serves me, in the employment of one of Lord Claythorpe’s companies.”

Peter Dawson looked at the other thoughtfully. His informant was Chief Inspector Passmore, who was a living encyclopædia, not only upon the aristocratic underworld, but upon crooks who moved in the odour of respectability.

“Inspector,” said Peter, “what position does Lord Claythorpe occupy in the world of the idle rich?”

The inspector stroked his stubbly chin.

“He is neither idle nor rich,” he said. “Claythorpe is, in point of fact, a comparatively poor man, most of whose income is derived from directors’ fees. He has been a heavy gambler in the past, and only as recently as the last oil slump he lost a goodish bit of money.”

“Married?” asked Peter, and the other nodded.

“To a perfectly colourless woman whom nobody seems to have met, though I believe she is seen out at some of the parties Lewinstein gives,” he said.

“Do you know anything about the fortune of Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said the other promptly. “Held absolutely by his lordship as sole trustee. The girl’s uncle thought an awful lot of him, and my own opinion is that, in entrusting the girl’s fortune to Claythorpe, he was a trifle mad.”

The men’s eyes met.

“Is Claythorpe crooked?” asked Dawes bluntly, and the detective shrugged his shoulders.

“Heaven knows,” he said. “The only thing I am satisfied about is his association with Four Square Jane.”

Peter looked at him with a startled gaze.

“What on earth do you mean?” he asked.

“Well,” said the inspector, “don’t you see how all these crimes which are committed by Four Square Jane have as their object the impoverishment of Claythorpe?”

“I have formed my own theory on that,” said Peter slowly. “I thought Four Square Jane was a society crook doing a Claude Duval stunt, robbing the rich to keep the poor.”

The inspector smiled.

“You got that idea from the fact that she gives the proceeds of her jewel robberies to the hospitals. And why shouldn’t she? They’re difficult to dispose of, and as a rule they’re easily retrievable if old man Claythorpe will pay the price. But you never heard, when she took solid money, that that went to hospitals, did you?”

“There have been instances,” said Peter.

“When it wasn’t Claythorpe’s money,” said the other quickly. “When it was only the money belonging to some pal of Claythorpe’s as shady as himself. The impression I get of Four Square Jane is that she’s searching for something all the time. Maybe it’s money--at any rate, when she gets money she sticks to it; and maybe it’s something else.”

“What is your theory?” asked Dawes.

“My theory,” said the inspector slowly, “is that Four Square Jane and Claythorpe were working in a crooked game together, and that he double-crossed her and that she is getting her revenge.”

* * * * *

Lord Claythorpe had his office in the City, but most of his business was conducted in a much smaller office situated in St. James’ Street. The sole staff of this bureau was his confidential clerk, Donald Remington, a sour-faced man of fifty, reticent and taciturn, who knew a great deal more about his lordship’s business than possibly even Lord Claythorpe gave him credit for.

After his interview with the detective, Lord Claythorpe drove away from the city to the West End, and went up the one flight of stairs which led to the little suite--it was more like a flat than an office and occupied the first floor of a shop building, being approached by the side door--in an absent and abstracted frame of mind.

The silent Remington rose as his master entered, and Lord Claythorpe took the seat which his subordinate had occupied. For fully three minutes neither man spoke, and then Remington asked:

“What did the detective want your lordship for?”

“To ask about that infernal woman,” replied the other shortly.

“Four Square Jane, eh? But did he ask you anything else?” His tone was one of respectful familiarity, if the paradox may be allowed.

Claythorpe nodded.

“He wanted to know about Miss Wilberforce’s fortune,” he said.

Another silence, and then Remington asked:

“I suppose you’ll be glad when that wedding is through, now?”

There was a significant note in his voice, and Claythorpe looked up.

“Of course, I shall,” he said sharply. “By the way, have you made arrangements about----”

Remington nodded.

“Do you think you’re wise?” he asked. “The securities had better stay in the vaults at the bank don’t you think, especially in view of this girl’s activities?”

“Nothing of the sort,” replied Claythorpe violently. “Carry out my instructions, Remington, to the letter. What the devil do you mean by questioning any act of mine?”

Remington raised his eyebrows the fraction of an inch.

“Far be it from me to question your lordship’s actions; I am merely suggesting that----”

“Well, suggest nothing,” said Lord Claythorpe. “You have given notice to the bank that I intend putting the bonds in a place of security?”

“I have,” replied the other, “the manager has arranged for the box to be delivered here this afternoon. The assistant manager and the accountant are bringing it.”

“Good!” said Claythorpe, “to-morrow I will take it down to my country place.”

Remington was silent.

“You don’t think it wise, eh?” the small eyes of Lord Claythorpe twinkled with malicious humour. “I see you’re scared of Four Square Jane, too.”

“Not I,” said Remington quickly. “When is this marriage to occur?”

“In a month,” said his lordship airily. “I suppose you’re thinking about your bonus.”

Remington licked his dry lips.

“I am thinking about the sum of four thousand pounds which your lordship owes me, and which I have been waiting for very patiently for the last two years,” he said. “I am tired of this kind of work, and I am anxious to have a little rest and recreation. I’m getting on in years, and it’s very nearly time I had a change.”

Lord Claythorpe was scribbling idly on his blotting-pad.

“How much do you think I will owe you, altogether, with the bonus I promised you for your assistance?”

“Nearer ten thousand pounds than four,” replied the man.

“Oh!” said his lordship carelessly. “That is a large sum, but you may depend upon receiving it the moment my boy is married. I have been spending a lot of money lately, Remington. It cost a lot to get back that pearl necklace.”