Chapter IV: Part 4

“Some day I will tell you his name. I think I have already told you too much, and made myself just a little bit too conspicuous. My only hope is that the knowledge that I am around will scare them. You can’t leave to-night?”

“No, it is impossible,” she said.

He nodded.

“All right.” He glanced past her to Lady Moron, who was standing at the door of the library, deeply engaged in conversation with Chesney Praye. Presently he caught the eye of the red-faced man. “I want you, Praye.”

He walked out of the house, waiting on the sidewalk for Chesney to join him.

“Now see here, Dorn----” began the other loudly.

“Lower your voice. I am not deaf. And, anyway, there’s no call for you to talk at all. Understand that. I’ve been to the India Office this morning, and sounded the Secretary. There will be no difficulty in getting a warrant for you in connection with that Delhi business if I take a little trouble. Let fact Number One sink into your mind. The second is this; if any harm comes to this girl Reddle--and I can trace your strong right hand in the matter--I’ll follow you through nine kinds of hell and catch you. Absorb that.” And with a nod, he turned and walked away, leaving the man speechless with rage and fear.

Chapter Seventeen

Lois thought it was kind of Lady Moron to give her the afternoon and evening to herself.

“My dear, I’ll be glad to get rid of you,” said her ladyship frankly. “That wretched man Dorn has quite upset me, and I’m not going to visit my resentment on you. Go away for a few hours and begin to forget that there is such a place as 307 Chester Square. And if you feel you’d like to go to a theatre later, please do so. I will leave instructions for the night footman to wait up for you. I have just heard from the hospital that Braime is quite conscious and perhaps he will give us an account of the mysterious happening. I’ve had the library searched, and I’ve not found anything to account for his extraordinary seizure. I doubt even whether the clever Mr. Dorn will be any more successful,” she added, without evidence of malice.

Lois was glad to get away, and her first thought was to acquaint her friend with what had happened. She made her way to Bedford Row, and as she reached that familiar thoroughfare, she saw the ancient Ford at the door and Mr. Shaddles pulling on his gloves preparatory to departure.

He lived in Hampstead, and was invariably the first and last user of the old machine. His glare was distinctly unfriendly as she mounted the steps.

“Well?” he asked. “You’ve come back, have you? Tired of your job, eh? I never thought you’d be much good as a private secretary.”

“I’m not tired of it, but I’m leaving,” she smiled.

“Young people must have change,” deplored Mr. Shaddles. “It is the cursed unrest of the age. How long were you with me?”

“Some years, Mr. Shaddles.”

“Two years, nine months, and seven days,” he said rapidly. “That seems like eternity, I suppose, young woman? To me it is”--he snapped his fingers--“yesterday! I brought you down from Leith, didn’t I? One of my clients mentioned you, and I gave you your chance, eh?”

“Yes,” she said, wondering why he had grown so unexpectedly reminiscent.

“Ah!” He looked up at the sky as though for inspiration, or applause--she wasn’t quite sure which. “You’ll want to come back to your old job, I suppose?” And without waiting for her reply, “Well, you can start to-morrow. I’ll give you three pounds a week, and you can start to-morrow morning at half-past eight.” He laid special emphasis on the last words.

“But, Mr. Shaddles,” said the dazed girl, “that is awfully kind of you--most kind. I’d love to come, but I can’t come to-morrow morning.”

“Half-past eight to-morrow morning,” he blinked at her. “Don’t keep me, I’m in a hurry.”

He went down the steps, mounted his car, and she stood watching him until he was one with the traffic in Theobalds Road.

So great was the shock of the lawyer’s generosity that this was the first news she told the sceptical Lizzy.

“There’s been something strange about him for the last two days,” decided that young lady. “Softening of the brain, I think. He didn’t mention about putting up my salary? Maybe he’s not so far gone as that. I shouldn’t take too much notice; he’ll probably change his mind to-morrow. Three pounds a week? He must be mad! I’ll bet he’ll come down to the office in the morning in his pyjamas, playing a cornet, and calling himself Julius Cæsar.”

The clerks had gone; Lizzy was alone in her office; she had stayed behind to type an interminable memorandum of association, which was never finished after Lois had told the story of what had happened at the house that day.

“I think Mike’s right,” said Lizzy, nodding vigorously. “That house is too full of tricks. I hate the idea of leaving Selwyn----”

“You mean Lord Moron?”

“He’s Selwyn to me,” said Lizzy calmly. “I’m going to the pictures with him to-morrow night. He’s a nice boy, that. What he wants is a mother’s care and he’s never had it.”

“And you’re going to be the mother?” Lois laughed, and then, seriously: “I can’t leave at once. You must please yourself what you do. I promised Lady Moron I would stay.”

Lizzy pulled a long face.

“I can’t desert you, but I’ll tell you straight, that I’d rather sleep on the top shelf of a mortuary than at Chester Square to-night. I’ll go with you, but I’m doing you a favour. Put it down in your book. As to old Shaddles he’ll be in charge of a keeper to-morrow. If anybody else but you had told me about that three pounds a week business, I’d have known they were lying. And now, what do you say to coming back to Charlotte Street and pretending we are poor again?”

To Lois there could have been no more attractive way of spending the evening. The old room with its shabby furniture, its faded chintzes, was home; and even the squalling of playing children in the street had a special charm which Lois had never observed before.

There was too a welcome awaiting them. Old Mackenzie saw them through the window of his room and came down to greet them in the passage. He was pathetically disappointed when he learnt they were not staying the night, but cheered up after Lizzy told him their plans.

“Let us ask him up to dinner,” said Lois, as she sat on the kitchen table, watching the girl manipulating the frying-pan.

Lizzy nodded. She was a thought distrait, and later Lois learnt the reason.

“If I’d had any sense, I’d have asked Selwyn to drop in, and he’d have come,” she said. “He’s democratic--one of the best mixers I’ve ever met. He told me last night, when you went out to get a handkerchief, that he felt thoroughly at home with me, and that I was the first girl he’d ever felt at home with all his life. That’s something for an earl to say, knowing that I’m a thirty-five bob a week key-shifter.”

Her voice trembled slightly and Lois regarded her with a new interest. She had been acquainted with Lizzy for many years and had never known her so emotional.

“He’s never had a mother’s care, that boy,” she said again, her voice shaking.

Lois charitably overlooked the fact that the boy in question was somewhere in the region of thirty-five.

“That woman hasn’t got any more sympathy with Selwyn than I’ve got with her. She’s got a heart like a bit of flint, she’s----”

“Mr. Mackenzie will be a poor substitute for your Selwyn, but shall we have him up?” asked Lois again.

“Yell for him,” was the terse reply.

In many ways Mr. Mackenzie was a more entertaining guest than Lizzy had hoped. In the first place he was very interested in her account of the Morons’ house and daily life, for it was Lizzy who spoke as an authority on the subject, appealing only occasionally to Lois for confirmation.

“Silk curtains? Really!” said Mr. Mackenzie, impressed.

“And satin ones,” said Lizzy recklessly. “At least, they look like satin. And silver mountings everywhere. And real marble walls in the bathroom. Am I right, Lois? And a silver fire-grate in the drawing-room.”

Old Mackenzie sighed.

“It must be very gran’ to live amidst such surroundings,” he said, “though I never envy any man or woman. And the countess is a charming lady?”

“I wouldn’t call her that,” said Lizzy. “She’s all right up to a point. She’s a bad mother but a good scout, if you understand me.”

“She has young children?” Mr. Mackenzie was interested.

“He is not exactly young,” Lizzy was careful to explain, “he’s a young man in what you might term the first prime of life. No, he’s not at school,” she snapped to the unfortunate question. “He’s a wonderful man. Selwyn wants to be an actor, and why his mother doesn’t let him go on the stage is a wonder to me.”

Again Mr. Mackenzie sighed.

“It is a bad life, the stage. I think I have told you young ladies before, all my sorrow and troubles come from my association with the stage.” And he went on disjointedly: “She was a bonny girl, with a beautiful figure and a face like a--a----”

“Angel?” suggested Lizzy, pausing with uplifted fork.

“‘Madonna’ was the word I wanted. To me it is still a matter of wonder that she ever looked at me, let alone accepted my humble suit. But at that time, of course, I was in a very good position. Some of my comic operas were being played. I had a considerable sum of money which, fortunately, I invested in house property, and she was a little--er--extravagant--yes, that’s the word, she was a little extravagant. It was perhaps my fault.”

There was a long silence while he ruminated, his chin bent on his chest, his eyes fixed upon the table-cloth.

“Yes, it was my fault. I told my dear friend Shaddles, when he suggested a divorce----”

“Shaddles?” squeaked Lizzy. “You don’t know that old--that gentleman, do you?”

Mackenzie looked at her in surprise.

“Why, Mr. Shaddles is my lawyer. That is how I came to have the good fortune to secure you as my tenants. You remember Mr. Shaddles recommended my little house?”

“Shaddles! Good Lord!” said Lizzy, pushing back her plate. “I don’t think I could ever have slept in my bed if I’d known!”

“He is a good man, a true man, and a friend,” said Mr. Mackenzie soberly.

“And he’s a mean old skinflint,” said Lizzy, despite Lois’ warning glance.

“He’s a wee bit near,” admitted Mr. Mackenzie. “But then, some lawyers get that way. His father was like that.”

“Did he ever have a father?” asked Lizzy, with assumed surprise.

“His father and his father’s father were the same way. But the Shaddles are great lawyers, and they’ve managed great estates. They’ve been lawyers to the Moron family for hundreds of years.”

“Do you know the Morons then?” asked Lois.

He hesitated.

“I cannot say that I know them. I know of them. The old earl, the father of the present boy, I have seen once. He lived abroad for many years, and was--weel, I’ll no’ call him bad, but he was a gay man by all accounts. And a scandalous liver. Willie, his son, was a fine boy, but he died. Selwyn, the younger son by the second wife, must be the lad to whom you’re referring.”

Even Lizzy was impressed by the old man’s knowledge of the Morons’ genealogical tree.

“It is a good thing for the family that they have this fine boy, Selwyn; though, if her ladyship had a daughter, she would succeed to the title, the Morons being one of those families where a woman succeeds failing a male heir.”

After dinner was cleared away he brought up his violin and played for half an hour; and Lizzy, whose respect for the musician seemed to have taken an upward curve, tolerated the performance with admirable fortitude.

The evening passed all too quickly, and at ten o’clock Lois looked at her watch and the two girls exchanged glances. Lizzy rose with a shiver.

“Back to the house of fate,” she said dramatically. “And thank heaven this is the last night we shall sleep there!”

She could not guess that neither Lois Reddle nor she would ever pass into that house of fate again!

Chapter Eighteen

At five o’clock that afternoon there was a great thudding of doors and snapping of keys in Telsbury Prison. The evening meal-hour was over. The last visit had been paid by the chief wardress. Laundries, cook-houses, and workshops had been locked up by the officers responsible, and the five halls, that ran, star-shaped, from the common centre, were deserted except for the wardress on duty at the desk, who was reading the letters which had come addressed to the prisoners and which would be delivered to them in the morning. She worked with the sure eye and hand of an expert, using her blue pencil to cover up such items of general news as convicts are not allowed to receive.

So engaged, she heard the burr of a “call,” and, looking round, saw that the red disc had fallen over one of the hundred apertures in the indicator. She put down her pencil, walked along the hall, and, stopping before a cell, inserted her key and pulled the door open.

The woman who rose from her bed did not wear the prison livery. Instead, she was dressed in a dark blue costume; her hat and coat lay on the bed and on top a pair of new gloves. In one corner of the cell was a small Gladstone bag and an umbrella.

“I am sorry to trouble you, madam,” said the prisoner nervously, “but I wondered if they had forgotten, if----” Her voice shook and she found it difficult to speak.

“They haven’t forgotten, Mrs. Pinder,” said the wardress calmly. “The officer should not have put the lock on you.” She pushed the door open wide. “If you feel lonely come out and sit with me.”

“Thank you,” said the woman gratefully, and the official saw that she was very near to tears. “Only the governor told me that he had telegraphed to my friends. There has been no reply?”

“There wouldn’t be,” said the tactful wardress. “They will be here very soon. Probably they think that you would prefer to wait.” She laughed. “Usually prisoners are discharged in the morning, but the Home Office allowed the governor to use his discretion in letting you out over-night. I don’t think I should worry, Mrs. Pinder.”

She waited at the door.

“Come out when you want,” she said good-humouredly. “There’s the whole hall to walk in and the lock is on, so you won’t be seen by any of the women.”

Mary Pinder came slowly into the wide hall and looked along the familiar vista of small black doors, tier upon tier, at the big window at the end of the hall through which the light of the evening sun was shining. For the first time in twenty years she was free of restraint, could walk without observation, and soon would pass through that steel-barred grille into God’s sweet air and into a world of free people.

She checked the sobbing sigh that came, and, her hands tightly clasped together, stood motionless, thinking. She dared not believe the story she had been told; dared not let her mind rest upon what happiness lay beyond the bars.

The wardress had gone back to the desk and her occupation, and the woman watched her wistfully. She was in contact with the world; had a husband perhaps, and children, outside these red walls. Mary Pinder had been cut off from life and human companionship for nearly twenty years. Outside the world rolled on; men had risen and fallen, there had been wars and periods of national rejoicing; but here, in this shadowy place, life had been grey, without relief, and even pain had become a monotony.

She walked timidly towards the officer and sat down in a chair near her. The wardress stopped her work to smile encouragingly, and then laid down her pencil again.

“I hope you’re going to forget this place, Mrs. Pinder?”

The other shook her head.

“I shouldn’t think it were possible--to forget,” she said. “It is life, most of the life I have known. I was eighteen when I came here first; twenty-three when I was transferred to Aylesbury, and thirty when I came back. I have little else to remember,” she said simply.

The woman looked at her curiously.

“You’re the only prisoner I’ve ever known that I had any faith in, Mrs. Pinder,” she said.

Mary Pinder leant forward eagerly.

“You believe that I was innocent?” And, when the woman nodded: “Thank you. I--I wish I had known that somebody believed that.”

“I wish I had told you,” said the wardress briefly. Then, as the sound of a turning key came to her: “Here comes somebody who thinks you were innocent, at any rate,” she said, and rose to meet the governor.

“All dressed and ready, eh?” said he cheerfully. “You’re a lucky woman! I wish to heaven I were free of this wretched place. But I am a prisoner here until I die!”

It was a stock joke of his and the woman smiled, as he took her arm and paced with her along the hall.

“Your friends will not be here until ten o’clock. I’ve just had a wire. They thought you’d rather leave after dark. Do you know where you’re going?”

“I haven’t any idea,” she said. “The address I gave you will always find me.” And then, in a changed tone: “Doctor, I wasn’t dreaming that you told me about--about----”

“That young lady who saw you? No, it is a most amazing coincidence. If I’d had any brains I should have known, the moment I saw how upset she was, that she was the girl with the branded arm.”

“My daughter!” she breathed. “Oh God, how wonderful! How wonderful!”

“They didn’t want to let you know. They were afraid of the effect it might have upon you. She’s a pretty girl.”

“She’s lovely,” breathed Mary Pinder. “She’s lovely! And does she know?”

He nodded.

“She knew that day she was in my room, when I told her about Lois Margeritta. If there’s any doubt about it the letter I had from the Under-Secretary should set your mind at rest. She went to see him with the idea of getting further particulars about the--about the crime you were charged with committing. Mrs. Pinder, will you tell me something?” He dropped her arm and faced her. “I am an old man and haven’t a very long time to live, and I’ve lost most of the little faith in human nature I ever possessed. Were you innocent?” He paused. “Were you innocent or guilty?”

“I was innocent.” She raised her eyes fearlessly to his. “What I have told you has been the truth. I went out to look for work, and when I came back I was arrested.”

“What about your husband? Where was he?”

She shook her head.

“He was dead,” she said simply. “I didn’t know then, but I have learnt since. Doctor, do you believe that?”

He nodded silently.

“You’ve been wonderful to me, sir,” she said in a low sweet voice. “I wish I could repay you for your kindness.”

“Well, you can,” he said in his gruff way. “When you get out into the world, you’re bound to meet some poor women who will suggest that you have your hair dyed red--don’t do it.”

He found an especial pleasure in the soft laughter that his jest evoked.

“And now you can come along and dine with my wife and me,” he said. “The only satisfaction I’ve ever got out of having a house within the prison walls.”

At five minutes past ten that night a small saloon motor-car drew up before the gates of Telsbury Prison and the driver got down and pulled the bell. He was challenged, as usual, from the wicket.

“I’ve called to take away Mrs. Pinder,” he said.

“You had better come in and see the governor.”

“I’d rather stay.” The driver lit a cigarette and paced to and fro to kill the time. But he had not long to wait; five minutes after, the little wicket-gate swung open and a woman stepped out.

“Is that Mrs. Pinder?” asked the man in a voice little above a whisper.

“Yes, it is I.”

“Let me take your bag.”

He opened the door of the car, pushed the bag inside and put out his hand to help her enter. Then, swinging into the driver’s seat, he closed both doors and sent the car spinning along the London road. In the shadow of the prison-gate the doctor watched the departure, and turned back with a sigh towards his office. Telsbury Prison had lost something of its interest with the passing of one whom the newspapers had described as “The Hereford Murderess.”

Chapter Nineteen

Lois Reddle was in no mood to return to Chester Square; but she was less willing to break faith with the woman whom she was beginning to dislike, and debated the question, she and Lizzy, on the Charlotte Street doorstep.

“Let’s stay,” urged Lizzy. “At any rate, don’t let’s go back yet. We shan’t see anything of Selwyn. Besides, remember what Mike said.”

“What Mike said means nothing to me--if by ‘Mike’ you mean Michael Dorn,” said Lois quietly. “We must go back, Lizzy--I’ve promised.”

Lizzy groaned.

“Oh, these honourable people--you make my head ache! Well, don’t let’s go back yet,” she urged. “The old lady said you could stay out to do a theatre. What’s the hurry?”

Again Lois hesitated.

“No, we’ll go back now,” she said firmly.

She looked across the road. An idler was standing with his back to the railings and she knew at once that it was not Dorn. No sooner had they moved towards Oxford Street than the lounger was galvanised to life and followed at a slow pace on their trail. Once Lois looked back; the man was following them.

“Let us turn round to the right,” she said. “I’m almost sure we are being followed.”

“We will keep to the main street,” said the intelligent Lizzy. “I prefer being followed that way.”

They reached Oxford Street, and crossed the road, the shadow coming after them at a respectful distance.

“Try Regent Street,” said Lizzy, “and when we get a little way down we’ll cross the road and come back on the other side. Then we’ll be sure.”

The movements of the man, when this manœuvre was completed, left no doubt. He, too, crossed the road and came back with them, and, when they boarded a westward bound ’bus, Lois saw him call a cab, which kept behind them all the way.

“If I thought it was Mike, I’d go back and give him a bit of my mind,” said Lizzy.

“It’s not he,” Lois assured her. “Mr. Dorn is not so tall and he’s smarter looking.”

They got out of the ’bus near Victoria, and, as they hurried across the road, Lois saw that the cab had stopped and the man was getting out. Surely enough, by the time they had plunged into silent Belgravia, he was on their heels. He never attempted to overtake them, showed not the slightest inclination to be any nearer to them than he was. If they dawdled, he slackened his pace; when they hurried, his stride lengthened. Then suddenly, ahead of them, Lois saw Michael Dorn. He stood squarely in the middle of the pavement and it was impossible to avoid him.

“I want a word with you, Miss Reddle,” he said. “You’re not going back to Lady Moron’s?”

“That is just what I am doing,” said Lois quietly.

“That is just what you’re not doing,” he said firmly. “Miss Reddle, I’ve rendered you many services. I would like you to do something for me in exchange.” He seemed momentarily at a loss for words. “And I have a personal interest. I don’t suppose you like me very much, and, anyway, that doesn’t count in the argument. But I like you.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You can afford to be sarcastic--I do not complain of that; but I am telling you the plain, naked truth. I like you as any decent man would like a girl of your character and----”

“Sweetness,” suggested Lizzy, an interested audience.

“That is a very good word,” said Dorn with a faint smile. “But because of this personal interest and--liking--I realise I’m being very lame and unconvincing, but I’m rather a fool in my dealings with women--I want you to go back to Charlotte Street.”

Lois shook her head.

“I quite understand that you are disinterested,” she said.

“I’m not,” he interrupted. “I’m too interested in you to be disinterested.”

“Well, in spite of that, or because of that, I am staying with Lady Moron to-night. To-morrow we are leaving, Miss Smith and I, and are returning to Charlotte Street.”

“You are returning to Charlotte Street to-night,” he said, almost harshly, and she stiffened.

“What do you mean?” she demanded coldly.

“I mean just what I say. I will not have you stay in this devil house another night. Won’t you be persuaded, Miss Reddle?” he pleaded. “You don’t imagine for one moment that this is a caprice on my part? Or that I have any unreasoning prejudice against Lady Moron and her son? I beg of you not to go to that house to-night.”

“Can you give me any reason?”

He shook his head.

“You must trust me, and believe that I have a very excellent reason, even though I can’t for the moment disclose it. That is, unless you see some reason yourself?”

“I don’t,” she said. “There have been a number of accidents; do you suggest Lady Moron is responsible?”

“I suggest nothing.”

“Then I’ll say good-night,” she said, and was passing on; but he barred her way, and at that moment he must have signalled to the dark figure in the background, for the tall man came forward.

“This is Sergeant Lighton, of the Criminal Investigation Department,” he said, and then indicated the girl: “This is Lois Reddle. I charge her with being concerned in the attempted murder of John Braime!”

The girl listened, thunderstruck, rooted to the spot.

“You charge me?” she said in horror. “But, Mr. Dorn----”

Michael Dorn made a signal, and the tall man caught Lois gently by the arm. Within half an hour of the prison gate opening for her mother, a cell door in a mundane police station closed upon her daughter.

Chapter Twenty

“And that’s that!” said Michael Dorn lugubriously, as he left the police station in company with the tall officer.

“Lighton, I’m going to catch a real thief now, if my theories are sound. And my main theory has something to do with an envelope which I begged from a clerk at the Home Office to-day, and which was posted to my address this afternoon.”

“Letter-box stealing?” asked the other, and Michael did not reply until he had secured the cab that was crawling on the other side of the street and they were seated.

“Let us say letter-delaying. I got on to this business owing to the fact that all the letters that came to me from my stationer and from a friend of mine in a Government office were unaccountably delayed twenty-four hours in the post. After giving the matter some thought I reached the conclusion that this coincidence was due to the fact that they were both enclosed in blue envelopes.”

“How is Braime?” asked the sergeant.

“Better,” was the reply. “I had a talk with him to-night--he’s had the shock of his life.” He chuckled softly, though his heart at that precise moment was aching for the dazed and indignant girl who was occupying the matron’s room, a large and airy cell, at the Chelsea police station.

The cab stopped before Hiles Mansions, and the lift-man took them up to Michael’s cosy flat. There were two or three letters waiting for him in his letter-box. He took them out and examined them. Then he went on to the landing and rang for the elevator.

“You brought these letters up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time did they arrive?”

“Half-past nine, sir,” said the man.

“There was a blue envelope posted to me this afternoon at three-thirty. It’s not here. How do you account for that?”

The liftman looked past him.

“I’m sure I can’t tell you, sir,” he said, studiously avoiding Michael’s eyes. “I bring the letters up as they come and put ’em in your box.”

“You’re on duty from nine at night until nine in the morning, aren’t you?” asked Dorn.

“Yes, sir.”

“You handle the morning and the night posts. Why is it that all letters enclosed in blue envelopes fail to reach me until twenty-four hours after they are due?”

“I can’t tell you that, sir.”

“Tell this gentleman. He’s a detective from Scotland Yard. And tell him without hokum, or you’ll sleep uncomfortably to-night, my friend.”

For a while the man blustered and protested and then suddenly collapsed.

“I’ve got a wife and four children,” he whined, “and there’s an Army pension I shall lose----”

“You’ll lose nothing if you tell me the truth. Who employed you to stop my letters?”

“A man, sir. I don’t know his name. If I die this minute, I don’t know his name! He gives me two pounds a week to hold up all the blue envelopes and the official ones. They’re not stolen, sir, they’re always put into the letter-box----”

“I know all about that,” interrupted Michael curtly. “You’re wasting your breath, man. Who is your employer?”

“I swear I don’t know him, sir. I met him at a public-house one night. He kidded me on to this job. I wish I’d never seen him.”

“Does he call for the letters?”

“Yes, sir, he called this morning after the post came in, but I didn’t give him the blue envelope because I hadn’t got it then. The postman overlooked it and came back a quarter of an hour later.”

“The blue envelope? Which blue envelope?” asked Michael quickly.

“It is downstairs, sir,” whimpered the unfaithful servant of Hiles Mansions.

“We’ll go down with you and get it.”

In the lobby below was a small cubby-hutch which served the porters as an office, and from beneath a stained blotting-pad he drew out two blue envelopes.

The first Michael recognised as that which he had written himself; the second he tore open and read, and the detective-sergeant saw his face change. Thrusting the letter into his pocket, he turned to the frightened servant.

“What else came for me to-day? Come, across with it, quick!”

Without a word the man put his hand into the pocket of a jacket that was hanging against the wall and took out a telegram, which had obviously been opened and reclosed. Michael read it in a fury of anger.

“Deal with this man,” he said and flew out of the hall, springing on the first empty taxi he saw.

A run of ten minutes brought him to his garage. Almost before the cab could turn round, the long black car was running out of London in defiance of all speed regulations.

Midnight was booming from Telsbury Parish Church when the car shot up to the entrance of the prison and Michael leapt out and pulled the bell.

“The governor’s in bed, sir.”

“I must see him at once. This is a matter of life and death. Take my card to him.” He thrust it through the bars of the grating and waited impatiently until he was admitted and conducted to the doctor’s house.

The governor, in pyjamas and dressing-gown, was waiting for him in his small study.

“Mrs. Pinder left at ten o’clock. Didn’t you send down for her?”

“No, sir, I knew nothing whatever about the release. The letter from the Home Office giving me the information had been held up. Ten o’clock? Who called for her?”

“I don’t know, I thought it was you. I saw the car and didn’t trouble to make enquiries.”

“Do you know which way they went?”

“They turned towards the London road. The car was a small saloon--a Buick, I think, with an enclosed drive. Hasn’t she turned up?”

Michael shook his head.

“No, she’s not in London.”

There was no time to be lost. He got into his machine and flew back along the London road. At the junction of the Telsbury by-road was a filling station, and he knew that an attendant slept upon the premises. It was some time before he could get an answer to his knocking, and then he was rewarded with valuable information.

“I saw the machine pass. It went south, towards Letchford.”

“It didn’t take the London road?”

“No, sir, it turned there.” He pointed. “I could see the rear light going up over the hill. It was just before I closed down for the night.”

Michael got back into his car, and, opening out, flew over the hill and covered the fifteen miles that separated Telsbury from Letchford in exactly fifteen minutes. Here again he was in luck. One of the town police had seen the machine; it had taken the westerly road. But thereafter his fortune failed him, for he came to a place where four roads met, and there was no trail that could help him determine which route the unknown driver had chosen. They were not bound for London at any rate. He tried one road without success; worked across country to intercept the second, but could meet nobody who had the slightest information to offer.

At four o’clock in the morning a weary man brought his machine to a standstill before the Chelsea police station and went slowly up the steps into the charge-room.

“Hullo, Mr. Dorn!” said the sergeant. “The superintendent’s been looking for you all night about that charge.”

“Well, what about it?” asked Michael drearily.

“There’s going to be the devil to pay. It appears that the countess says the girl wasn’t in the room when Braime was hurt. We’ve had a full statement from her in writing, and the superintendent says he’s got something to say to you that you won’t forget in a hurry!”

Dorn’s lip went back in an angry snarl.

“If he should say anything that’s worth remembering I’ll go out of business,” he said. “Anyway, you can release her. I’d like to offer my apologies.”

“Let her out!” laughed the sergeant. “You’re a bit late. She was released at one o’clock this morning.”

Dorn’s eyes narrowed.

“Released at one o’clock this morning?” he said softly. “Did she go away by herself?”

“No, sir, she did not. A gentleman called for her in a blue Buick.”

Michael Dorn staggered back; his face was drawn and haggard. Of a sudden he seemed to have grown old.

“The man who released that girl may be an accessory to murder!” he said. “Tell your superintendent that when you see him!”

And, turning on his heel, he left the charge-room.

The Public Prosecutor’s office opened at ten o’clock, and Michael Dorn was waiting for him, a dusty, unshaven, grimy figure, when that official arrived.

“Hullo, Dorn! What is wrong?” he asked, and, in as few words as possible, the detective explained the position.

The Prosecutor shook his head.

“We can do nothing. You haven’t the evidence we want, and no charge would lie. We’ve given you the freest hand, in view of all the remarkable circumstances of the case, but I cannot consent to a warrant for arrest until you bring me proof positive and undeniable.”

Michael Dorn bit his lip thoughtfully.

“In the old days, when they couldn’t get a man to tell the truth, what did they do with him, Sir Charles?”

“Well,” said the other drily, “they tried something with boiling oil in it! Those were the days when criminal investigation was a little easier than it is now.”

“No easier.” Michael shook his head. “I’m going to get the truth. I’m going to find out where they have taken these two women. And the rack and the thumbscrew will be babies’ toys compared with what I will use against them! I’ll have the truth if I have to pull Chesney Praye limb from limb!”

Chapter Twenty-one

Lois was wakened from an exhausted sleep by the opening of the cell door; she got up unsteadily, not quite knowing what she was doing, and followed the matron to the charge-room, dizzy with sleep, inert from the very shock of the charge levelled against her. She heard the desk-sergeant say something, and dimly heard the name of the countess. And then somebody shook hands with her; she thought it was the sergeant. And a young man, who had appeared and disappeared in her focus of vision and had not entered into recognition, took her arm and led her slowly into the dark street. He jerked open the door of a car, and, before she knew what was happening, had set the car in motion. She experienced a pleasant sensation of languor--her head drooped.

It was the bump of her forehead against the driver’s seat that wakened her. It was nearly daybreak.

“Where are we?” she asked.

She was uninterested in the identity of the driver, but, as he turned his head to answer her, she saw that it was the red-faced man, Chesney Praye.

“It’s all right, Miss Reddle,” he said, showing his big teeth in a grin; “I’m taking you down into the country.”

She frowned, trying to remember clearly the events of the night before. She was still dazed with sleep, then she recalled her arrest and became wide awake. Before she could ask any further questions, he was explaining over his shoulder.

“Her ladyship thought you’d better be kept out of the way of that sleuth for a day or two. He’s got a grudge against you, and he’s a vindictive beast.”

“Mr. Dorn?” she asked. “Why did he arrest me? I knew nothing whatever about Braime’s injury.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he said soothingly. “But that was his way of getting even.”

With whom he was getting even he did not explain, and even to the girl’s tired brain it seemed a little illogical to suggest that Michael Dorn had procured her arrest in order to get even either with Mr. Chesney Praye or the Countess of Moron.

They were passing across the wide slope of a hill. Beneath them she saw the glitter of a meandering river and the grey smoke rising from little cottages in the valley. The road was narrow and bumpy and was little more than a lane. She wondered why he came this way, for down the hill-side she saw a broader thoroughfare which seemed to be running more or less parallel with that they traversed.

“We are nearly there.”

They were reaching the mouth of the valley. The lane dipped unexpectedly into a thick plantation of young trees, turned abruptly at right angles over a cart track, and five minutes later she sighted a long discoloured wall, which enclosed a squat, low-roofed building. She saw that the other side of the house faced a road, and again she wondered why they had not reached their destination by a more comfortable route. Evidently she was expected, for the weather-beaten gate was pulled open and they passed into an untidy farmyard. Half a dozen chickens scattered at their approach; from a patched and broken pen came the grunt of a pig.

“Here we are.”

He stopped the car, and, jumping out into the litter, he jerked open the door and helped her to alight. The girl looked round in surprise. She saw a long, rambling farm-house, and of the windows that were in view, all except two had not been cleaned for years. To her left was a cavernous black barn, its doors hanging on broken hinges, and, she guessed, immovable. It was empty save for a rusted old plough and the wheelless body of a farm waggon. The place smelt of decay and she noted in that brief survey that at one end of the building the roof was nearly innocent of tiles.

“This is not on Lady Moron’s estate?” she asked.

“No, it is a little place that a friend of ours--hers I mean--has. You’ve met Dr. Tappatt?”

“Dr. Tappatt?” she frowned. Of course, it was the queer, uncleanly doctor, with the bulbous nose, who had lunched at Chester Square.

“Is he here?” she asked dismally. The last person in the world she wanted to spend a day with was the doctor.

“Yes, he’s here. He’s not a bad fellow; I knew him in India, and I think you’ll like him.”

They had evidently come in the back way of the farm, for the only visible door into the house was closed and bolted. He knocked for a little while before a woman’s harsh voice asked who was there, and in a little time there was a sound of rusted bolts being drawn and a tall, gaunt female showed in the doorway. She wore a soiled print dress; her face was sallow and grimy.

“Come in, mister,” she said, and they passed into a dark corridor.

The house smelt damp and sour, and the ancient carpet on the floor was too thin to deaden the hollow echoes of their footsteps.

“The doctor is here.” She wiped her hands mechanically upon her black apron, and showed them into a room leading off the passage.

It was a dingy apartment, as unsavoury as the house itself. Huddled in one corner of a horsehair sofa, before the ashes of a wood fire, a man was sleeping, wrapped in an old dressing-gown. The air was thick and redolent of stale smoke and whisky fumes, and the girl drew back in disgust.

Chesney went past her and shook the sleeping man.

“Here, wake up,” he said roughly. “There’s somebody to see you.”

Dr. Tappatt’s head jerked up. If he had been unpleasant at midday in Chester Square, he was repulsive now.

“Eh, what?” he grunted. He got up on to his feet and stretched himself. “I’m tired. I told you I should go to sleep. You said you’d be here before now. _She’s_ sleeping. I’ll bet she’s got a more comfortable bed to-night than she’s had for twenty years.”

“Shut up, damn you!” said Chesney under his breath. “Here’s Miss Reddle.”

The doctor blinked at the girl.

“Hullo! Glad to see you, miss. Sorry for you to see me like this, but I’ve been up all night with--with a patient.” He boomed the last word as though by its very emphasis it would carry conviction.

“Now listen, Tappatt. There’s a warrant out for this lady, but we’ve succeeded in getting her away from the police, and she is to remain here for a few days until her ladyship can square matters.”

Lois gasped.

“A warrant out for me?” she said in amazement. “But you told me that Dorn had no right to arrest me!”

He smiled and signalled to her to keep silence.

“Has the woman got Miss Reddle’s room ready? She is very tired and wants to sleep.”

“Surely, surely,” mumbled the doctor. He held a bottle upside down over a glass, and a very small trickle of liquid came out, to his annoyance. “I must have a drink,” he grumbled. “This fever is playing Old Harry with me.”

“But, Mr. Praye,” said Lois, “I don’t quite understand the position. Why am I staying here? Where is this place?”

“Near Nottingham,” replied Praye. “And, for heaven’s sake, don’t stray out of the farm and lose yourself. You’ll be all right; you needn’t be here longer than a few days, and I assure you that there is no cause for worry.”

He looked at his watch and uttered an impatient exclamation.

“Is Miss Reddle’s room ready?” he asked sharply.

The doctor led the way out along the passage and up a narrow flight of stairs. On the top landing he unlocked a door and threw it open.

“Here it is.”

“But I’m not tired, Mr. Praye; in fact, I was never so wide awake, and I’d rather stay up, if I could have some tea?”

“You can have anything you like, my child,” said the doctor gallantly. “Where’s that woman? Hi, you!” he roared down the stairs. “Bring this lady up some tea, and bring it quick!”

Lois walked into the bedroom. It was poorly furnished but clean. She had the impression that every article of furniture had been newly placed.

“This was the room we got ready for the other,” began the doctor, “but when I heard the young lady was coming----”

Chesney Praye silenced him with a look.

The other? Twice he had made reference to another visitor who had already arrived.

“That door at the end leads to a bathroom,” said the doctor. “It is the snuggest little country lodging you could hope to find.”

He closed the door on her and softly turned the key. The two men went down the stairs together. When they were alone in the doctor’s room:

“Where’s Pinder?” asked Chesney Praye.

“She’s all right,” said the other carelessly.

“She’s nowhere near this girl?”

“No, she’s in the other wing. She’s easy. Twenty years of prison discipline behind her. She won’t kick!”

“What did you tell her?”

“The yarn you told me, that somebody wanted to get at her, and she had to lie here quietly for a day or two. That housekeeper of mine will look after her, believe me. She had charge of one of my homes in India.”

Chesney looked at his watch again.

“It is four miles to Whitcomb Aerodrome; you can drive me over.”

“Why don’t you take the car?”

“Because, you fool, I don’t want the car to be seen. Hurry up!”

In five minutes the doctor had harnessed a raw-boned pony to a dilapidated trap. The blue car had been driven into a shed and the door locked, and they were bowling down the road to Whitcomb as fast as the ancient animal could pull them. A quarter of a mile short of the aerodrome Chesney got down.

“Those two women are not to meet----”

“They’re not likely,” interrupted the other.

“And you’d better keep to the house.”

“What about money?” asked the doctor.

Chesney took a pad of notes from his pocket and passed two to the man.

“And try to cut out the booze for the next week. You’ve got a chance of making big money, Tappatt, but you’ve also got a chance of being pinched. If Dorn so much as smells the end of the trail, he’s sure to have you before you realise you’re suspected.”

Tappatt grinned.

“On what charge?” he asked. “They both came of their own free will, didn’t they? I don’t pretend they’re certified.”

“They may want to go away of their own free will,” said the other significantly.

He walked rapidly along the road through the big gates of the aerodrome and crossed the field towards a two-seater scout that had been drawn out of its hangar and was attended by three men.

“Good morning. I’m Mr. Stone,” he said. “Is this my machine?”

“Yes, sir. You’ve got a good morning for your trip.”

Praye looked at the frail machine dubiously.

“Will that make Paris in one trip?”

The aerodrome manager nodded.

“Two hours and fifty minutes,” he said. “Maybe shorter. You’ll have a following wind.”

He helped the passenger into a heavy leather coat. The pilot had already taken his place, and, when Praye had been strapped and gloved and received his final instructions, the propellers turned with a roar, and the machine, running lightly along the grass, swept up into the blue sky and was soon a speck of white above the eastern horizon.

Chapter Twenty-two

When Michael Dorn left the police station he hurried his car to Charlotte Street. At such an early hour of the morning there was no sign of life in this thoroughfare. He expected to be kept waiting before there came an answer to his knocking. But had he known something of old Mackenzie’s habits, he would not have been surprised at the promptitude with which his signal was answered.

The old man was in his dressing-gown and had not been half an hour in bed when Dorn arrived. He looked with mild suspicion at the visitor--a suspicion which was intensified when he learnt the object of his visit.

“Yes, sir, Miss Elizabetta Smith is in the house. Are you from the police?”

“Yes,” said Michael, without stretching the truth. “Can I speak to Miss Smith?”

“She came in late and very distressed. I understand that the good countess has promised to do all in her power to secure the release of my young friend, Miss Reddle. It is indeed an awful thing to have happened. Will you come in, sir?”

Michael followed him up the stairs to his little room and sat down whilst the musician went up to arouse Lizzy. She also had heard the knocking and was waiting in the doorway of her room when Mackenzie came up.

“Dorn, is it?” she said viciously. “I’ll come down and Dorn him! He’ll be ‘sunset’ by the time I’ve finished with him!”

She came into Michael’s presence a flaming virago.

“You’ve got a nerve!” she said. “After swearing away the life of poor Lois----”

Michael shook his head.

“She’s not here?” he interrupted with a touch of asperity.

“Here? Of course she’s not here! She’s in the police station, and how you could----”

“She’s not in the police station, she’s been released, and I want to find the man who released her.”

Something in his tone silenced the girl.

“Isn’t she with Lady Moron?” she asked.

“I am going to Chester Square, but I don’t expect to find Miss Reddle there. I locked her up to save her life--I suppose you realise that? There have been two attempts made to kill her, and I had information that the third would be more successful. I knew her mother was on the point of being released from prison--she was in fact released last night. It is vitally necessary that I should have Lois Reddle under my eye.”

Lizzy had collapsed into a chair.

“Her mother released from prison?” she said hollowly. “What are you talking about? Her mother’s dead. And killing? Who’s going to kill Lois? Why! It was an accident--the balcony.”

“It was no accident,” said Michael quietly. “The balcony has been unsafe for a year past and was condemned by the borough surveyor on the advice of a local builder who was brought in to repair the slab. Until Miss Reddle occupied that room in Chester Square the French windows leading to the balcony had been kept locked up.”

Lizzy gasped.

“But the servants----”

“The servants were all new. None of them had been longer in the house than a fortnight. Sergeant Braime came up from Newbury, and even he knew nothing.”

“Sergeant Braime?” she repeated, wide-eyed.

“Braime is an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department, who has been in the countess’ household for six months,” was the staggering reply. “Nobody was allowed to go on to the balcony. A gate was fixed to prevent the servants from forestalling the plan--it was removed the night Lois went to her room.”

“By whom?” asked Lizzy quietly.

Michael Dorn shrugged his shoulders.

“Who knows? I shall discover later.”

“Where is Lois now?”

“That is exactly what I want to know. I’m going to Chester Square right away. Will you come with me?”

She was out of the room in a flash.

“But, Mr. Dorn, this is a terrible thing you say; that any person should conspire against the life of that innocent lassie!” said old Mackenzie, horrified. “You will surely find Miss Reddle at the good countess’ home.”

“I hope so, but I very much doubt it, Mr. Mackenzie,” said Michael.

The old man’s lips were tremulous.

“Is there anything I can do? It is not my habit to leave the house, but I would even take that step----”

Michael shook his head.

“I am afraid you can do nothing, except in the unlikely event of Miss Reddle returning here. You will see that she does not go out again, and that she does not receive visitors in any circumstances. I very much doubt,” he smiled faintly, “whether you will be called upon to render this help. I can only wish to heaven that you will be!”

Lizzy was down in a very short time, dressed for the street, and, as they drove towards Chester Square, she told him the part she had played in securing Lois Reddle’s release.

“I went and found the countess; she was at a friend’s house, and told her about Lois. She was very much upset. I’d never seen her before to speak to, but she was quite decent to me.”