第 11 页

"Then stay in London: it's safer," replied the other, and sent the car spinning down St. James's Street into the park.

It was nine in the evening when he arrived at Heartsease, and it had rained throughout the whole journey. He handed the car to the garage-keeper and strolled into the big, old-fashioned hall of the hotel. Although it was two days before the opening of the golf week, the lounge was well filled. He reported to the reception office and greeted the girl behind the polished counter with a friendly smile.

Miss Cravel had evidently suffered no ill effects from her alarming experience. She was all smiles as she greeted him, and in her neat black dress looked prettier than she had in the more elaborate costume she wore when he saw her last.

"Mr. Monkford is expecting you," she said. "You know the suite, Mr. Long?"

He looked left and right, lowered his voice, and asked: "Will you tell me something, Miss Cravel?"

For a second he saw suspicion in her eyes, and then:

"Certainly, if I can."

"Who is paying my bill?" he demanded.

"Why, Mr. Monkford, of course."

"Thank heavens!" said Betcher, and left her puzzled, for she had no sense of humour.

Monkford had had dinner, which had been laid in the sitting room. He was in his brightest and most cheerful mood, for on the way down he had stopped at a curiosity shop in Guildford and discovered some authentic specimens of Bristol glassware: four emerald-green goblets that he had arrayed upon the mantelshelf.

"By the way," he said, "the Black Fate is a fake. I shall have to write to Miss Revelstoke, but she'll be here next week."

"The Black Fate?" For the moment, Betcher had forgotten the existence of the little negress.

"A fake, sir! A German copy. I took it to Bethini's, and they detected the imposture immediately. I don't know whether I ought to tell Miss Revelstoke; I'm afraid of upsetting the dear old lady."

A waiter came in at that moment to clear the table. When he had gone, Betcher put a question which he had intended asking before.

"Is Miss Revelstoke a very rich woman?"

"Ye-es," said Monkford, with all a banker's reluctance to discuss his client's affairs. "She's a fairly rich woman. In fact, I should say she was a very rich woman. She lives simply and her income is a pretty large one."

"How large?" asked Betcher.

But Monkford was not to be drawn.

"I've carried her account for a long time, even when I was a country banker," he said. "At one time, it was an enormous amount. I think she was trustee for her brother's estate. Which reminds me that, when the account was transferred to London, we nearly lost it. It was offered to your father, but for some extraordinary reason, he wouldn't touch it. At that time she had the greater part of three quarters of a million pounds to her credit."

This was news to Betcher Long. His father, he knew, was a very keen business man who would go to a great deal of trouble to secure an account of such dimensions.

"Wasn't that rather remarkable— the refusal, I mean?" he asked.

Mr. Monkford nodded.

"Yes, extraordinary," he said. "Most bankers would jump at such an account; and it wasn't through any affection for me that Sir Godley turned it down. The Western & Somerset are rather old-fashioned, but for Heaven's sake, don't tell your father I said so!"

"I've already told him, or he has told me— I'm not certain which," said the detective.

The fact that only two nights before he had discussed Miss Revelstoke with his father, and that Sir Godley had made no reference whatever to the account, would in ordinary circumstances have perplexed him. But now he had got beyond confounding.

Mr. Monkford was nervous; Long had noticed a subtle change in his appearance. He started at the slightest sound, and confessed that he had been sleeping badly.

"I wonder if Miss Revelstoke is going to bring that girl of hers?" he asked, just before Betcher left him for the night.

"You mean Miss Sanders?"

Mr. Monkford nodded.

"Yes— a charming girl," he said, speaking to himself; "a very, very charming girl." Then, as abruptly as he had opened, he changed the subject. "Crayley is coming down to-morrow," he said. "You don't like Crayley?"

"It is rather difficult to like anybody who has no other mission in life than to look silly and grow roses," said Betcher, and the banker chuckled.

"Old Crayley isn't a bad sort— not at all a bad sort," he said. "And the fellow's got pluck. Do you remember how he threw himself into the struggle when you were arresting Shelton?"

"What was he doing at Colchester? I've often wondered," said Arnold Long.

"He has an estate just outside the town. I've been to the place twice," replied Monkford. "Crayley plays at farming in Essex."

Without alarming the banker, Betcher had made a very close inspection of the bolts and fastenings of the door, and now, momentarily released from his vigil, he went into his own room and conducted as careful a search of that, not even neglecting the old-maidenly precaution of looking under the bed.

The window looked down upon a strip of garden that ran parallel with the building, the end wall of the restaurant being immediately opposite the centre of the sitting room. Locking the door communicating with the saloon, he fastened the bathroom door, though here there was no necessity, for the little bathroom was built on the American plan, and depended for light upon an electric lamp in the ceiling. Putting the key into his pocket, he strolled downstairs. Miss Cravel had disappeared, her place having been taken by a girl clerk. Cravel himself was in the lounge talking to one of his guests. He was in evening dress, but instead of the usual dinner jacket he wore a long black frock coat. Presently, catching the manager's eye, the detective drew him aside.

"I'd like to see some of your more expensive suites," he said.

Cravel shook his head.

"I'm afraid they're all booked " he began.

"I'm not thinking of taking them," interrupted Betcher, "but I'd like to know just what sort of accommodation I should get another year."

"Come upstairs." Cravel took a key from the reception clerk and led the way to the first floor. "This is Miss Revelstoke's suite," he said, "and is one of the best in the house."

Little Heartsease had once been a country mansion that in itself was the relic of a more pretentious castellated building, and Miss Revelstoke's principal room was almost like an apartment of state, with its turret alcoves.

He followed the manager into the room and strolled from one bedroom to the other.

"I suppose this will be for Miss Sanders?" He indicated the smaller of the two beautiful rooms.

The manager was watching him with mild amusement. When he came back: "I really believe, Mr. Long, that it wasn't idle curiosity that made you ask me to show you this suite. You're here on duty!"

"I'm always on duty," evaded Betcher.

"Honestly, Mr. Long, do you expect any kind of a rumpus here? I wouldn't have it for the world! Especially next week, when the place will be packed out. Heartsease wouldn't survive a scandal."

Betcher looked at him and winked.

"It has survived many," he said, "unless my memory is at fault."

"I don't mean those kinds of scandal," said the manager hastily. "Naturally, that sort of thing happens, and you can't prevent it; and nobody thinks any the worse of us. But if somebody was shot up— well, it would ruin the place, that's all."

"It might also ruin the person who was shot up," said Betcher, showing his teeth in a mirthless smile. "You need have no fear, Mr. Cravel. We shall do our very best to avoid anything that looks like a tragedy."

The next day was Sunday, and, strolling through the lounge in the evening, he saw a familiar face and crossed the room to shake the limp hand of Jackson Crayley. "Perfectly horrible weather," grumbled the languid man, pulling dismally at his yellow moustache. "If I'd had any sense I'd have gone to Deauville. Golf is a beastly game, anyway."

Betcher saw him smile and nod at somebody behind the detective's back, and, turning, he had a glimpse of Miss Alice Cravel passing through the hall to her office.

"Deuced nice girl that. Quite a lady and all that sort of thing," said Mr. Crayley. "To tell you the truth," he said, in a burst of confidence, "I wouldn't come to this wretched place at all if it wasn't for that dear little girl."

"A friend of yours?"

"Ya-as." Mr. Crayley took out his monocle, wiped it, and replaced it in his eye. "Yes, and I'm not ashamed of it. She's one of the dearest little ladies I have ever met."

"And yet," said Betcher, very deliberately, "when I saw you speaking to her at Marlow, you told me she was a visitor who wanted to see over your garden, and that you were rather annoyed at her impertinence."

"Did I?" said Mr. Crayley, unabashed. "Well, the truth is, old man, I'm not the sort of bird who wears his heart on his sleeve. I don't mind telling you in absolute confidence that I'm particularly attached to that dear little girl. Naturally, a fellow has to be careful— what? How are Scotland Yard and all kind friends?"

"They're bearing up bravely in my absence," said Betcher. "Have you seen Mr. Monkford?"

"He's here, is he? Why, of course, I ought to go up and pay my respects to the old boy. Very useful having a banker for a friend— what?"

He dug his finger facetiously in Betcher's ribs, but his gesture was almost as feeble as his jocularity.

"I have a strange room this year," he complained. "That wretched woman Revelstoke has bagged the suite I usually have, and I'm fearfully annoyed about it."

"Don't you like Miss Revelstoke?"

"Hate her!" said Mr. Crayley, with unexpected vehemence. "She's most unkind. She can't say a decent word to a fellow— always snapping and snarling at him. I loathe her!"

There was truth in this, if the concentrated venom of his tone meant anything.

"I'll totter up and see dear old Thingummy-tight."

It was his eccentricity that he remembered names with difficulty, but Betcher guessed he meant Monkford. He saw the weary Jackson Crayley later in the evening; he was leaning over the counter talking to Miss Cravel, who usually at this hour had been relieved by the girl clerk; and he wondered what community of interest there was between this rather flashy type of lady and the exquisite man of fashion whose life seemed to be one blank boredom.

That Sunday was the longest day that Betcher Long ever remembered spending. He went out with Monkford and played an execrable game of golf in the morning and the afternoon was a weariness and a trial. And then he began to understand just what it was that was lengthening this day so inordinately. It was the knowledge that the morrow would bring Nora Sanders to Heartsease, and that the big period of peril would begin.

The storm had cleared; the sun was shining in a blue sky when Miss Revelstoke's fast limousine flashed up the drive and came to a noiseless halt before the portal of Heartsease. Mr. Cravel was in attendance to welcome his guests, and the presence of Inspector Long seemed a little superfluous. So Miss Revelstoke seemed to think, for she passed him with a curt nod, her attention seemingly concentrated upon the obsequious manager.

"You have a few parcels: let me help you."

Nora had seen him the moment the portico of the hotel had come into view, and laughingly she waved aside his assistance, which was unnecessary, since a small army of porters was in waiting to deal with the baggage which was piled on the top of the car.

"Welcome to Heartsease!" said Betcher solemnly. "I'm a deputation from the Town Council to offer you the freedom of our ancient borough."

"You don't even know the name of the borough," she laughed.

"Betcher!" said Mr. Long promptly, and apologized incoherently.

She went quickly in the wake of Miss Revelstoke, and he did not see her again until after dinner that night, and then only for a few minutes. Tuesday came, and the beginning of the great tournament. Heartsease was crowded out, the broad lawn had disappeared under gaily hued umbrellas and tea tables, and the hall was rather like the entrance gate at a popular football match.

To keep track of newcomers would in ordinary circumstances have been impossible; but the Heartsease golf course lay within a ring fence: there were two entrances to the park, and at each of these two detectives kept a look-out for suspicious characters. Beyond a fashionably dressed pickpocket or two, and a confidence man from London who thought the occasion might yield profit to himself, there were no ignominious rejections, nor did Betcher Long anticipate there would be.

Wednesday brought Mr. Henry, the lawyer, and, seeing him dismount from his car, Betcher groaned.

"Here's a bird who has come golfing in a top hat," he said over his shoulder (he viewed the arrival from Mr. Monkford's sitting-room window).

"Who is it?" asked the banker.

"Henry, the lawyer. Do you know him?"

"Know him!" scoffed Monkford. "Why, I should say so! He's Miss Revelstoke's lawyer and a rising man."

"Rising! He'll be coming up for the third time if he goes golfing in a stovepipe hat," said Betcher.

It was not surprising that Mr. Monkford should have many friends. He was a popular figure in the City of London, and as a connoisseur, he had been brought into touch with a certain artistic and literary set. Visitors flowed into his room all day long, for beyond the hour's walk he had in the morning, in company with Betcher, he seldom left the hotel, for professional golf was anathema to him. So that he did not join the crowds of enthusiasts that hampered the putting of the only great golfer England has ever produced.

Except on the night of his arrival, he had his meals in the great dining room, and found his chief pleasure in these functions, and in the crowd that thronged the lounge after dinner. And as day followed day, and no sign of danger appeared, he forgot his fears and was his old cheerful self. On the Tuesday he was elected President of the Dance Committee, and threw himself into the work of organizing the fancy-dress ball which was to conclude the week's festivities.