Chapter XXVIII: Reveals a Crooked Circumstance

At midnight Whitlock arrived, and I took him up to my bedroom where we might talk without an eavesdropper.

He sat on the edge of my bed, listening to my report upon the movements of Stonor from the moment he had left Scarborough, without uttering a word.

"Suspicious!--very suspicious," he remarked at last. "To me, it seems as though he feared to be followed, but is now confident that he has escaped us."

"Yes. That is exactly my opinion. He is quite unaware of our presence here."

"Good. Then I'm half inclined to take a room at the Paris to-morrow. I should have better opportunities of keeping in touch with him," was my friend's reply.

"But what is your opinion of the affair in its present aspect?" I asked eagerly.

"Well, it's the most difficult problem I've ever had to solve during all the years I've been in the police," he declared. "The further Kennedy probes, the more extraordinary become the features of the case."

"But you told me on the telephone that Kennedy had made some further discoveries."

"And so he has. He's found out one or two things that add both interest and mystery to the matter. He's been making inquiries about Drayton--and also about that girl, Daisy Marvin."

"About Daisy Marvin!" I gasped. "What about her?"

"Oh, well--as I suspected," was his careless reply. "You recollect what I told you in the train coming North--eh?"

"About her double life--as you called it?"

"Exactly."

"Well, what about it?"

"Oh, nothing which really concerns this case. She's only one of a thousand others on the stage. You know, Keene, in what contempt I hold the whole world of the variety stage."

"Ah! you're prejudiced," I declared. "Because there are a few black sheep you condemn the whole flock!"

"You're young," he laughed, "and a devotee of the music-hall, of course. I was the same once."

"No," I cried resentfully. "Many men and women on the variety stage are honest and hard-working, and some are, you'll admit, clever in dancing, juggling, riding cycles, performing acrobatic tricks, and the like. Why entertain such a strong prejudice! You should leave that to others."

He laughed, saying--

"Well, Keene, there's a lot of truth in what you say, of course. But in the case of Miss Daisy Marvin I don't think Kennedy is mistaken. He's been very active these past two days."

"And he's found out, of course, that she has a lover," I remarked bitterly, "and that his name is Francis Drayton."

"There's no doubt that a very strong friendship exists between the pair," he said. "That was surely apparent when we watched them the other night."

"But are they lovers?"

"You seem very interested in the young lady's love-affairs," he remarked.

"Well, I've often seen her on the stage, and greatly admire her. I think she's charming in some of her songs."

"Take my advice, Keene, and never have anything to do with a stage-woman."

"Why?"

"Because they're all the same--deceit and heartlessness. When I was a young man I loved a girl in the chorus at Drury Lane--in Gus Harris's time. We used to meet every night at the stage door, and on Sundays I took her to Hampton Court, Richmond, and other places--six months of this and then a rude awakening. No, you take my tip and keep away from the stage if ever you're in search of a wife."

"And Drayton?" I asked, eager to change the subject.

"His identity is established without a doubt," Whitlock responded quickly. "The result of Kennedy's inquiries go to show that the girl is, by some unaccountable means, entirely beneath the fellow's influence. Miss Marvin has a confidential maid who accompanies her everywhere and who dresses her at the theatre. Last night Drayton and this maid, known as Annie, met in the Horse-shoe in Tottenham Court Road, unknown to Miss Marvin. The latter was on the stage at the Oxford waiting for Annie's return. The maid and the man held a long consultation in private, after which Drayton showed her a letter. The maid appeared very much perturbed on reading it, and commenced to upbraid her mistress's lover."

"Then Drayton is her lover? You admit that," I cried.

"Well, knowing what we now do, we can only surmise--eh?"

"Go on," I said hoarsely. I had tried to believe in my love's honesty, but how could I continue in that belief in face of all that was now being revealed?

"The woman quarrelled with the man and appeared to threaten him. They were sitting in a corner of the private bar, conversing in undertones, so Kennedy, unfortunately, could not get sufficiently near to them to overhear what was said. The man, however, was evidently frightened of her reprisals. She openly threatened him, and when he heard her words his face fell. Kennedy says that across his countenance spread an evil look--the glance of a man who had a terrible revenge within his heart. Yet at the same time he held the woman Annie in terror, for he presently took from his pocket-book a bank-note and tried to press it into her palm. But she refused to accept it and pushed it away from her. Drayton appeared surprised. He had not expected that her attitude would be so antagonistic.

"He argued with her, but she merely laughed in his face. He surreptitiously took out a second bank-note and added it to the first, but she refused point-blank.

"'No!' she said, loud enough for Kennedy to hear. 'You've gone too far. I wish to have nothing further to do with you.'

"'But you shall,' he cried. 'It's all very well for you to be defiant, but remember what I can tell if I choose--recollect that you have already accepted monetary consideration for certain services.'

"The woman rose as though to go.

"'No. Wait and hear me!' he commanded. 'I give you till to-morrow at this hour to decide. I shall meet you here, and then hear your answer. Consider well, for your decision means whether we shall still continue to be friends--or whether in future we are to be enemies. Now you may go.' And she left him without uttering a word. His threat of exposure had, it seemed, caused a sudden change in her manner. She was now rather crestfallen than defiant.

"Kennedy waited and afterwards followed Drayton out. The old servant had evidently gone to rejoin her young mistress on the stage of the Oxford. That some conspiracy is in progress was evident."

"Does Kennedy suspect some plot against Miss Marvin?" I asked anxiously.

"Well, it almost seems so," was my friend's reply. "After leaving the Horse-shoe, Drayton went across to Frascati's, and there met two men who were apparently awaiting him. They were foreigners--Spaniards evidently."

"You said that Drayton had been in Peru," I remarked.

"Yes. They were evidently friends he had known abroad. Kennedy says that, from their appearance and their ignorance of the life about them, it was certain they had not been in London very long. Well, they remained in earnest conversation for half an hour or so, and then he rose and left them, taking a cab down to the Gambrinus in Regent Street."

"That seems to be a favourite resort of his," I remarked.

"Yes. And curiously enough, after waiting there a few minutes he was joined by the girl against whom he had evidently been conspiring."

"Daisy Marvin!" I gasped. "And she met him there by appointment?"

"Yes. It's distinctly curious," Whitlock said. "How she gets rid of the old woman Annie, we don't know. But it's very evident that she's over head and ears in love with the fellow Drayton. It's a pity, for he's such an infernal blackguard."

"A pity!" I cried. "Yes; but, by Heaven, we'll be even with him. He little dreams of how much we know, does he?"--and I chuckled within myself as I contemplated my bitter revenge. Daisy had cast me aside in favour of this good-looking criminal--this man who, though young in years, was already an adept in crime. My love was in ignorance of the fellow's past, but ere long I would unmask him, and then she should choose between us.

"Well," I said, "and what else?"

"Very little. They remained chatting together for about twenty minutes, and then he put her into a cab and told the man where to drive--her father's house on the Surrey side. After that, Kennedy left him, resolving to go to-night to the Horse-shoe again at the same hour and witness the meeting between Annie and the man we have under surveillance. What has occurred to-night I, of course, don't yet know."

"The man is her lover evidently," I declared bitterly. "She's infatuated with him."

"All girls of her age suffer from an infatuation. It's an infantile disease--like the measles or whooping-cough--and is seldom fatal," laughed Whitlock, philosophically. "Every girl begins her womanhood with an infatuation of some man older than herself, and very soon learns to dislike him just as much as she once admired him. There is no harsher critic of a man than a girl still in her teens. This pretty dancer is in the infatuation stage, but in a month or so you'll see that the ecstasy will gradually wear itself out, and----"

"But you believe there is a conspiracy against her," I said. "Ought she not to be warned?"

"Yes. When we know the truth--not before. Otherwise we may betray ourselves to Drayton."

"But in the meantime, if Annie is compelled to act with Drayton, she may fall a victim."

"We must chance that," was his reply, ignorant of my love for the girl we were discussing.

"Chance it!" I cried, "and allow her to run such a risk?"

"The risk is not so very great, Keene. Remember what she is--an actress. She's well able to take care of herself, depend upon it."

"Not when she is helpless in her infatuation of that scoundrel," I declared quickly.

But to this he made no reply. He changed the subject, asking--

"Has Stonor met any friend here?"

"Not to my knowledge," I answered. "Of course some friend may be staying at the Hôtel de Paris. The place seems full of golfers. It's a pity I dare not go there."

"I think I shall make a move there in the morning. I'm at a disadvantage here."

"And I suppose the best thing for me to do is to return to town--eh?"

"No; not yet. I've seen your people at the office and they quite understand. They told me to tell you to send them some good copy," and he smiled.

"Copy!" I cried. "If you'd only let me publish all I know, Whitlock, regarding this affair, it would make a first-class sensation."

"Yes. But at present we must keep our own counsel," he answered. "I know quite well that you view the mystery from a journalistic standpoint--as a feature, as you call it--in the _Herald_. I admit that it is one of the strangest and most complex mysteries that has ever been given to Scotland Yard to unravel. At present we have a clue, but whither it will lead us we cannot tell. To be wary and silent is our present course. While pretending to know nothing, we must be ever watchful."

"And Stonor? What do you think of him?"

"This time to-morrow I may be able to express an opinion. At present I have not yet seen him."

I saw by my friend's manner that he was in possession of some further fact which, though it puzzled him, caused him considerable satisfaction. He took a cigarette from my case and smoked with such an air of contentment that I knew he had at last discovered a clue--either in Stonor and his sister or in Drayton and Daisy Marvin.

Until the bells of the parish church chimed two o'clock, we sat chatting in low tones, so as not to be overheard by our neighbours. Then we parted, to meet again at eight the following morning.

Shortly before ten Whitlock, with an excuse to the landlord of our hotel that a golfing friend of his was staying at the Hôtel de Paris, took his bag and left. Then that day I spent in loneliness, as before, ever on the lookout for my friend, but never once catching sight of him.

At six I received a scribbled note telling me to watch the promenade and see who went upon the pier from seven till eight-thirty. "Be careful not to be seen," was Whitlock's injunction, "and be in your hotel to-night at ten-thirty."

Accordingly, just before seven I descended the steps from the cliff to the seashore and idled up and down, watching narrowly those who went upon the pier. Quite a goodly number of persons were taking their evening airing for the sunset was a glorious one of green, crimson and gold.

Suddenly--walking behind two ladies in tweed Norfolk costumes, golfers evidently--came two men, walking leisurely, enjoying their cigars. Both were in dark flannels and both possessed the easy gait of gentlemen.

The first I recognised as Stonor, but when I glanced at the second I stared and rubbed my eyes. Was I dreaming? Was this a hard, solid reality? I drew back next instant, fearing lest he should recognise me.

The discovery was a startling one--more amazing, indeed, than any we had hitherto made in the whole course of that difficult and searching inquiry. I stood bewildered.

Sight of that man--the very last person I had expected to meet--revealed to me a startling and astounding truth.

Whitlock was correct. We had found a clue to the assassin of Louise Lorimer, if not to the motive of the suicide of her friend--the unknown woman who had killed herself rather than reveal her secret!