第 20 页

"You know no more about him?"

"Nothing at all. Until I saw his portrait in the papers I had no idea that he was related to me; and even then, I would not have recognized him."

"And you've known all the time that he was Clay Shelton?"

Sir Godley turned; his face was a little bleak.

"Yes, I've known most of the time that he was the biggest scoundrel that ever lived, that he broke my father's heart and all but ruined me and our family. That is why I wanted you to come off the job. Naturally, I had no desire to see you hound to his death a man in whose veins ran the blood of my father. And more especially did I want you to keep out of the business when I knew that he had left a gang behind to carry on his work."

"Forgery? I thought that had stopped."

"It has and it hasn't," said Sir Godley. "Clay, as I will call him— that, by the way, was his nickname as a boy— must have been a most indefatigable worker.

He probably left behind him a large number of forged instruments, some of which have been since passed. The gang is without money. Clay was not the kind of man who would save, either for himself or his confederates. You can believe me that the Terrible People are in a bad financial position, and that is the reason you're going to have trouble."

"What trouble?"

Sir Godley shrugged his shoulders.

"I understand that Monkford has been killed; you may be sure there's a money side to that. Now, you're bursting with news, Arnold— tell me what has happened."

He listened in silence until his son had finished, and then he nodded slowly.

"They're after Monkford's money, and the girl, of course, is merely a blind instrument in the scheme. Poor old Crayley!"

"You knew him?"

"Knew him?" said Sir Godley. "Why, of course, everybody knew Crayley. You say you suspected him? When did this start?"

"The day I arrested Clay Shelton in Colchester, Crayley was there," said Betcher. "And he was there to cover the forger; of that I am certain. Clay Shelton never carried a gun. I examined his clothing after he was arrested, and there was no indication that he had had a Browning in his hip pocket. It was the 'cover' who carried the gun— and the 'cover' in this case was Crayley, and he bungled it. When he came into the fight, it was with no other intention than to slip a pistol into Clay Shelton's hand, and this he did. I traced the Browning. It was bought in Belgium six months before— and six months before, Jackson Crayley had been spending the winter at Spa. In fact, he was at Spa when the pistol was bought, though we were never able definitely to prove that Crayley was the actual purchaser. He probably got some Belgian servant to buy it for him, but the coincidence was a little too remarkable to get past. Since that time I've had Crayley under observation. Father, do you know Miss Revelstoke?"

The baronet shook his head.

"I've seen her— in fact, I've been once introduced to her, but I do not know the lady, and had never heard of her before in connection with Clay Shelton until you hinted just now that she was a member of the gang. I must say that it seems extremely unlikely, for she is a lady of irreproachable character according to the accounts I have had."

"A perfect lady," breathed Arnold Long. "Shall I tell you what she is— or was? She was the treasurer and money-holder of Clay Shelton's gang. Monkford himself told me that at one time she had three quarters of a million in his bank, the proceeds of a mythical brother's estate. She has never had a brother, so far as I can discover. She may have been a cat's-paw; she may even be acting without the slightest knowledge that she is materially assisting the Gallows Hand."

"Women of that age are naturally silly. You may find that she is under the thumb of men like Henry— and why Henry, with his respectable practice, should be under suspicion as a potential murderer, I fail to understand. In all probability Clay did organize this extraordinary confederation, because he was a born schemer and a brilliant general. But why they should continue after his death—"

"You've already supplied the reason, Father," said Betcher quietly. "These people are broke. They have certain documents to dispose of. They've got to find money, and revenge is a mere sideline. They killed Monkford so that they could transfer his fortune to Nora Sanders—"

"In whom you are most inordinately interested," said his father, with a sidelong glance at him. "And I think I would even tolerate a daughter-in-law for the pleasure of seeing you engaged in some respectable and productive work."

Betcher snorted.

"Banking!" he said contemptuously. "Money-lending on the grand scale! I'd rather be a good live detective—"

"That is what I'm scared about. You'll never be good, but I'm most anxious to keep you alive."

Arnold Long had experienced a queer little thrill when he had learnt, after a patient search of the records of Somerset House, that the man he had sent to his death was a man of his own blood. Callous as he was to the fate of wrongdoers, he had a little creepy feeling up his spine when that fact was brought home to him. Clay Shelton was his uncle— he wondered if the Terrible People knew this, and hoped that they didn't! And then an idea occurred to him. Arnold Long's favourite weapon was surprise. His most successful method was to drop some verbal bombshell and watch the effect upon his victim. There were circumstances in which the best-balanced mind, the best-controlled face would betray itself, and Miss Revelstoke was both self-possessed and sphinx-like. He determined to fire a mine under her feet which would at least shake loose the mask behind which was hidden the real woman.

He made this resolve on the way to the nursing home where Nora Sanders was lying.

Chapter 31

IF THERE was one place in the world to which Nora Sanders was not qualified for admission, it was a nursing home. So she protested to Arnold Long, but he was very firm on the point.

"I am not run down and I haven't an attack of nerves," she said. "And really, I think it is most unnecessary."

"The doctor says " he began.

"The doctor!" She was contemptuous. "I felt all the better for the swim, and that horrible drug— what was it?"

"Butyl chloride," said Betcher. "It is famous amongst violent dopes. I will grant your magnificent physique, Nora Sanders; I will accept the view that drugging and drowning are the finest tonics that the human system can absorb; I know that you could push a 'bus over, and that all you want is a day's rest, a best seller to send you to sleep, and a glass of ice water to arouse you. Nevertheless, I am going to stand by the doctor, and I insist upon your going into this nursing home and seeing nobody— remember that little bit, seeing nobody— for a week."

"I must see Miss Revelstoke."

He scratched his chin doubtingly.

"I don't know about Miss Revelstoke. Yes, perhaps you may— in my presence. Otherwise, she must not be admitted. I admire Miss Revelstoke immensely," he went on, "but she has never struck me as a joy-bringer. I want you to get well."

"You want me to be out of danger, and you think that if you can keep me tied down in one place, with a detective sitting outside the door and a policeman walking outside my window, I shall not get into trouble," she accused him, and was surprised when he accepted this interpretation.

"Yes, that is perfectly true," he said.

"What happened to Mr. Crayley?" she asked.

"We don't know yet, but I rather fancy he got clear away," lied Betcher.

"You're not taking any action against him?"

He shook his head.

"None whatever. In fact, we have nothing but kind thoughts for him."

When he left the big room overlooking Dorset Square where she was in reality a prisoner, he took aside the matron of the nursing home and gave her certain instructions.

"No newspapers of any kind whatever. Magazines, all the novels she wants, but no newspapers and no gossip."

And on receiving the lady's assurance that his instructions would be carried out, he went away, easier in his mind than he had been for some time.

They telephoned him later in the day that Miss Revelstoke was calling on her secretary at six o'clock, and five minutes before that hour he was waiting in the drawing room of the home. She did not seem at all surprised at meeting him there, and her manner was cordial and even jocose.

"You're the very man I wanted to see, Mr. Long," she said. "What has happened to this unfortunate girl? Your Mr. Rouch, who isn't the most informative of men, told me she had been kidnapped and nearly drowned, but that, of course, can't possibly be true."

By the hard light of day he was scrutinizing her critically. In the past week she had become an old woman. He remembered her lineless face, her serene carriage, but only the undimmed brightness of her eyes remained of her former self. Deep lines had appeared in her face; there was a haggard expression which was new, and the firm mouth drooped at the corners. Yet he could not be sure that her gaiety of manner was wholly assumed. If it were so, then she was the best actress he had ever met.

"Crayley is dead, they tell me?"

He nodded.

"Don't tell Miss Sanders," he warned her. "Yes, he is dead."

She shook her head.

"It is very terrible— first Monkford and then Crayley. I am very worried about him."

"You've forgotten Clay Shelton," he said, innocently enough, watching tensely, "My unfortunate uncle—"

He got home! The face grew fixed and hard.. The black eyes narrowed in unbelief, and then stared at him.

"I didn't hear you, I think? Your—"

"My uncle. He was my father's half-brother: I thought you knew that. His real name was John Xavier Towler Long. But perhaps you didn't know that either? I know quite a lot about Uncle John." He laughed mirthlessly. "He was married to a girl named Paynter in '83, and basely deserted her. My father tells me that she has been dead only a few years."

In a second she was her normal self.

"I never realized you had such discreditable family connections, Mr. Long," she said, and looked at her watch. "Do you think I can go up and see Nora now?"

"We will go up together," said Betcher, and this arrangement came as a surprise to the woman.

"There were several matters I wanted to discuss with her in private."

"I'll put my fingers in my ears," said Betcher obligingly, and reluctantly the woman accompanied him to Nora's room.

She was in bed, wearing a dressing jacket, and she turned down her book as her employer appeared.

"You poor child!" The elder woman's voice was sympathy itself. "Really, Nora, you're almost as bad as Mr. Long, you move perpetually in an atmosphere of melodrama! Are you feeling very bad?"

The girl shook her head and fixed her reproachful eyes upon Betcher.

"I've never been better in my life," she said, "but they insist upon my staying here."

"'They,' of course, is Mr. Long. What a blessing it is for you to have such brotherly devotion."

"Motherly," suggested Betcher.

The woman looked at him for a second.

"Can I speak with Nora alone for a moment?"

He strolled over to the other side of the room, looking out into Dorset Square. He had wonderful hearing, and as though she was conscious of this, Miss Revelstoke dropped her voice to a whisper.

"Can Henry come to see you?"

The girl hesitated and glanced across to where Betcher was standing.

"Don't ask him, because he hates Henry," said Miss Revelstoke. "I want you to see him alone. Can you?"

Again Nora looked toward the detective, doubt and uncertainty in her face.

"I don't know. I believe instructions have been given that I'm not to see anybody. Can't you tell me what he wants?"

"He has something to tell you— something that Monkford said just before he signed the will."

Then, as she saw the girl's eyes wander again to the detective, she smiled.

"Well, I won't bother you, and please don't tell him that I asked."

"Miss Revelstoke, has anything been heard of Mr. Crayley?" The detective heard the words and turned quickly.

"Nothing," said the woman, after a moment's thought. "Nothing at all."

The girl sighed.

"He was very kind to me," she said in a low voice, "and I am afraid " She shook her head in silence.

Betcher Long knew well of what she was afraid. It would not be difficult to break the news of Jackson Crayley's passing.

Chapter 32

THE next morning, two men stood up in the dock at Westminster Police Court, and they were both subject to the same charge, dangerous driving of motor cars without being in possession of the necessary licences, and both took the six months which was handed to them without complaint— indeed, with evidence of relief.

"You two fellows ought to be hanged," said Betcher Long, when he interviewed them in the corridor after sentence had been pronounced.

"Say, listen, Mr. Long," complained the chinless man loudly, "we've had our medicine, and you've no right to come here bullying us."

"I've got thirty-three charges I could bring against you fellows," said Betcher extravagantly. "Maybe it's thirty-five, so don't get fresh with me, or I'll 'prison-gate' you, and you'll be walking out of Wandsworth into Wormwood Scrubbs. You were both sent out to murder me, and I don't take kindly to homicides with designs on my young life. If you come across with all you know about this business—"

"You've asked us that before and we said nothing," said the bigger man sturdily. "It was an accident, as you well know, but being a copper you can't take the witness stand and tell the truth. I wonder some of you fellows don't drop dead when you're taking the oath!"

His shifty eyes looked everywhere but at Long. "Come on, bo'," he addressed his companion, and they would have shuffled off toward the cells had not the jailer detained them.