第 9 页

Little Heartsease! Not only was Nora Sanders to be there, but John Monkford had booked two rooms, one of which the detective had arranged to occupy. It was at Little Heartsease that Monkford was to be done to death. Of that Arnold Long was certain. He did not believe in coincidences, and especially so marked a coincidence as this was.

He called a taxi and saw the girl home to her flat, and then walked back to Scotland Yard, turning over in his mind the problem of this attempt to kidnap the young proprietress of the hotel in which John Monkford was to spend the next week. She could not very well have been mistaken for Nora, for she was shorter than the girl, her colouring was altogether different, and what should Nora Sanders be doing in Berkeley Square at midnight?

Early the next morning, he left for Berkshire, and came to the road club at an hour when most of the guests were thinking about their morning bath.

It was a beautiful old building standing in a great park; its eighteen-hole course was famous throughout the world, and the hotel had equal fame for its kitchen and the beauty of its appointments. Its patrons were wont to complain that the cost of living for a week at Little Heartsease would maintain a man of average income for three months in the most fashionable of the continental spas. It boasted a chef with an international reputation, a staff of the best-trained servants in the country, and it was, he knew, the last word in comfort and luxury.

His first inquiry was for the proprietor, and he learned that Mr. Cravel had been out early that morning and was at that moment taking breakfast in his own office. A tall, rather serious-looking young man came out to greet Betcher Long. His morning suit was of an irreproachable cut. He had the indefinable air of an upper servant, which a certain type of manager never seems to lose.

"Yes, I've heard of my sister's unpleasant adventure," he said. "She was on the 'phone to me last night. You are Inspector Long? I think I have a room reserved for you next week."

He was very calm, very unperturbed; not even his sister's peril ruffled his serene surface. Betcher Long, who was not easily surprised, was taken aback by the calm way in which the news of his sister's adventure had been accepted. But in a sentence Mr. Cravel explained his lack of distress.

"My sister and I have no enemy in the world, and we have many good friends. It was impossible that this attempt against her could have been anything but a mistake. I suppose the people who held her up have not been arrested? No? I am not surprised. Would you like to see your room? It adjoins Mr. Monkford's."

"I'd like to know who will be guests here next week."

"I can show you a list," said the manager.

He picked up a folder, opened it, and took out a foolscap sheet covered with neat writing. The detective's eyes went down the list of coming guests.

"Miss Revelstoke is a regular visitor, I take it?"

Cravel nodded.

"She is not really interested in golf, but I think she likes the society. The lady whose name was mentioned by the gang that attacked my sister is her secretary."

Betcher said nothing, but went farther down the list.

"Jackson Crayley— is he a regular visitor for the golf week?"

"He was here last year," said the proprietor. "Mr. Crayley is rather a friend of ours, if one may presume to claim friendship with guests. Or perhaps it would be more exact to say that he is a friend of my sister's. In fact"— he hesitated—"well, they are very good friends. My sister and I have visited his house at Marlow."

He went on to volunteer the information that Miss Alice Cravel was in charge of the reception. She had a clerk and an accountant under her, and she was also by way of being the cashier of the establishment.

The detective went up to inspect his room. It was part of a suite of three, consisting of two bedrooms and a saloon. The apartments were panelled halfway up the wall with dark oak, except the sitting room, which was half-panelled in some white wood. There was, he noticed, a telephone in each room connected with a wall plug, and each of the bedrooms had its own private bath.

"This will be Mr. Monkford's room," said Cravel, opening the door and showing the beautiful interior. "It is rather larger than the one we have given you, and it has perhaps a finer view."

The rooms were on the second floor, and, opening the lattice window of Monkford's apartment, Betcher looked out. Beneath, he saw a glass roof extending for about twenty yards, and the manager explained that this was the roof of the restaurant. From the detective's point of view the situation was admirable; it was almost impossible that danger could come to the banker from outside, for the glass made it impossible that a ladder could be erected against the window.

There were three doors to the room, each of stout oak and each fitted with not only locks but bolts. One led to the small bathroom, one to the corridor, and the other into the private saloon. He went round the room tapping the panelling, and Mr. Cravel smiled.

"We have no secret traps or doors— I think that is what you detectives look for in these old houses?" he said. "In point of fact, there is very little left of the old interior. I had everything taken out, and only the walls remain of the original building."

As they were walking down the stairs together, the manager asked: "Is there any special reason why you should be staying with us, Mr. Long? That sounds impertinent, but is there any special reason?"

"What reason could there be?" asked Betcher.

Mr. Cravel shook his head.

"I don't know, but one has heard all sorts of queer rumours about Monkford. Mr. Jackson Crayley, who is a neighbour of his, says he lives in terror of assassination. Is that true?"

"Mr. Jackson Crayley seems to know a great deal about his neighbour," replied Betcher drily.

Mr. Cravel laughed.

"I often think that Mr. Crayley knows much more than people imagine," he said.

Betcher returned to town with an uncomfortable feeling in his mind for which he could not account. It was not until he was going to bed that night that he realized the cause of his uneasiness. It was the knowledge that he was returning to that beautiful old house within a few days; for there, it seemed, lurked the very shadow of tragedy.

Chapter 14

MISS REVELSTOKE, who invariably unlocked the letter box and sorted her own correspondence, handed the registered package to the girl across the breakfast table.

"For me?" said Nora, in surprise.

"If the address means anything, it is for you," said Miss Revelstoke, who was inclined to be difficult in the early hours of the morning. "Is it your birthday?"

"No," said Nora, as she cut the strings of the package and unfolded the paper in which it was wrapped.

It was a small cardboard box which, in its turn, contained a smaller leather case about an inch and a quarter square.

"A ring?" said Miss Revelstoke, watching with interest.

Nora snapped open the lid of the case and gasped her amazement. She had never seen a diamond quite as big as that which was set in the gold ring.

"This must be a mistake," she said, and then she saw the folded paper and opened it.

There were four words in printed characters.

FROM AN ADMIRING FRIEND

Miss Revelstoke took the ring and examined it carefully. She was something of a connoisseur in the matter of jewellery.

"A blue diamond," she said, "worth three hundred and fifty pounds, if it's worth a penny! Come now, Nora, who is your unknown admirer?"

The girl could only shake her head helplessly.

"I'm sure it isn't meant for me," she said.

But there was the address staring her in the face. The package bore the date stamp of a West End office.

"The old fool!"

Miss Revelstoke was mildly amused, and there was no malice in her unflattering description.

"Who?" asked the startled girl.

"Monkford— who else? The man is as susceptible as a boy of twenty— he has always been like that. Why, I remember about ten years ago—"

"But surely it can't have come from Mr. Monkford!" interrupted Nora. "Why, I have hardly met him!"

"Then it must have come from Henry," said Miss Revelstoke with decision, as she spread butter upon her toast. "I'll ring them up and tax them both."

"Please don't do that," cried Nora, in a fright. "I shall feel horribly uncomfortable as it is. If I knew for certain that Mr. Monkford had sent it" She stopped.

"You'd send it back? Then it isn't he but you who are the fool," said Miss Revelstoke calmly. "My dear, in my sixty years' experience, I have been an onlooker of love-making, and I've reached one conclusion about woman in relation to man, and it is, that she should take everything that is given to her and set it aside against the day when much more will be required in exchange.

By the way, is there any possibility that your queer detective may be the donor of this elegant souvenir?"

"Of course not, Miss Revelstoke!" Nora felt her face grow red and was the more embarrassed and incoherent. "Why should he? And have detectives so much money that they can afford to send diamonds to people they admire?"

"Long has," said the woman, with truth. "You forget, my dear, that his father is a very rich man."

The girl was silent. Not that she for a moment imagined that such a beautiful trinket could have come from Betcher Long. He was not the type of man who would indulge himself in such an act of gallantry. She looked at the ring again, a little bewildered, not a little worried.

"What am I to do with it?" she said.

"Keep it!" snapped Miss Revelstoke. "You needn't wear it. Put it aside until you feel less uncomfortable. That ring will take a lot of explaining away to your fiancé when you find one, but it is worth three hundred and fifty pounds, and those are three hundred and fifty good reasons why you should not dream of returning it, even if you knew. Happily, you do not know the giver."

Miss Revelstoke was an uncomfortable sort of person. She had a trick of presenting the fait accompli, a habit which was sometimes a little staggering. Nora came back from a shopping excursion in Westbourne Grove to find the young lawyer in the drawing room, and Miss Revelstoke greeted her with a statement that turned her red and white.

"It was not Henry who sent the ring," she said. "I had an unhappy feeling that it might have been."

The direct attack destroys embarrassment, and the girl could only laugh helplessly.

"It wasn't your birthday, was it, Nora?" asked Mr. Henry, a trifle anxiously.

He had got into the habit of addressing her by name, and though she did not exactly resent this form of address, there were moments when his assurance irritated her. It was futile to wish that Miss Revelstoke had not been so communicative; that was part of the woman's character, and no secret was safe in her keeping if it could form a subject for her mild malice.

"There is no fool like an old fool— I would stake all the money I have in the world on Monkford being the sender," she said.

"But Mr. Monkford doesn't know me!" Nora was on the point of exasperation.

"He is an idealist," said Miss Revelstoke, with an air of finality. "Get through to Heartsease and ask Cravel if he can let me have an extra room for Wednesday night. Henry is coming down— he will be the one man in the hotel who really plays golf," she said, and the girl went into the library to carry out her employer's instructions.

When this was done, she ran up to her room, and, taking out the little blue-leather case, examined the ring again. She would not have been human if, behind all her embarrassment, she did not feel a considerable amount of gratification at being the owner of so beautiful a jewel. But there was something more than uneasiness in her attitude of mind. She wished she could see Betcher Long and ask his advice. Perhaps he would adopt the worldly view of Miss Revelstoke and advise her to take what the gods had given her, and set it aside for the day which would bring her into contact with the unknown donor.

She put away the jewel and went downstairs. Henry had gone; she had seen him drive away in a taxi from the door whilst she was still in her room.

"I am afraid I've rather upset our young legal friend," said Miss Revelstoke grimly. "He wanted to know more about your ring than I could tell him. I wish I hadn't told him now."

"I can heartily echo that wish," said Nora ruefully. Miss Revelstoke smiled.

"Henry is a good fellow," she said, "and you might do worse, Nora."

To which Nora Sanders made no reply.

Her employer was dining out that night, and for once dispensed with the attendance of her secretary. Ordinarily, Nora went everywhere with her, and it was very unusual for the elder woman to excuse her.

"Go to a theatre— see something bright and cheerful, and forget all about your mysterious people," she said. "And especially the mysterious person who is sending you his family heirlooms!— Yes, the ring is an old one didn't you know that? The form of setting has been out of fashion for ten years."

Nora had her dinner in the pretty dining room alone.

She had finished her meal and was reading the evening newspaper when a maid came in.

"Would you see Mr. Long?" she asked, and Nora sprang up, her colour coming and going.

"Mr. Long?" she said awkwardly. "Yes, I'll see him in the drawing room."

Perhaps there was another Mr. Long; it was not an uncommon name. But it was Betcher who stood in front of the empty fireplace, calmly regarding the big oil painting of a pretty girl in the costume of the 'sixties which hung above the mantelpiece.

"Hullo!" he said, in his unconventional way. "Miss Revelstoke, I presume? At that period of life when the world was very rosy."

Nora stared at the picture, realizing only then, for the first time, that the portrait she had seen every day was that of her employer as a girl.

"I hope she won't mind my calling. Is she in?"

The girl shook her head.

"She has gone to the theatre."

"I thought she might be. Her car passed me in Piccadilly," he said coolly. "Miss Sanders, how often do you go to the theatre?"