THE NIGHT HAD COME, AND Marvyn Chase was a blaze of light. The magnificent grounds gleamed with electric arc and other lamps, there were brilliant alleys picked out in flame, two of the finest bands in the county discoursed soft music in the lovely June night.
There were two other bands inside the house, for Graham Minter, South African millionaire, was doing the thing in style, to use his own expression. The long suites of oak-panelled rooms were thronged with guests, most of whom had come down for the occasion by special train, a mob of reporters and press-men generally had the run of the house.
For this was the function of the season—the fancy dress bal masqué given by Mr. Graham and Lady Mary Minter. The thing had been puffed in the papers for weeks before, the grand old house built by the dead and gone Marvyns pictured and photographed over and over again.
Everybody knew now that Graham Minter had gone steerage to Cape Town ten years ago, and that he had come back eighteen months before a millionaire ten times over.
He could have bathed in diamonds had he chosen. He was into everything. The last inter-state war in South America could never have been brought to an issue had he not financed one or the other of the combatants. That he was utterly unscrupulous did not in the least matter. He was very rich and hospitable, he had married the daughter of a marquis, and his entertainments were Arabian Nights up-to-date.
It was a wonderful function, this bal masqué. Money had been lavished on it like water. The finest bands in Europe were here, the electric lighting had cost a small fortune, the supper had been imported from Paris with one of the most famous chefs in charge.
The great function was at its height. Gorgeous figures flitted here and there, the air was heavy with the scent of perfume, the electrics shimmered on a perfect atmosphere of diamonds. The gardens of Bendemeer might have been stripped to provide all those roses there. There were banks of soft green ferns to rest the tired and jaded eye. Quite two hundred couples were waltzing in the big oak hall. Their fancy costumes made a flashing kaleidoscope of colour.
The solitary individual who wore no disguise at all was the master of the house. He was a short, thick-set, clean-shaven man, with a certain bull-dog expression. His evening-dress was quite plain and not in the least loud. He might have been a sporting farmer, and indeed his tastes were in that direction. Hard as Graham Minter was with men, he was fond of dogs and horses, and they were fond of him. He could ride and shoot to perfection. His pink face and bloodshot eyes suggested an over indulgence in good living. But Minter boasted that he could live with the fastest and wake the next day with a head as clear as a bell.
There was a slight frown on the bulldog face and a close-setting of the heavy lips. He seemed to be looking for somebody. He liked to see in the papers that this and that distinguished aristocrat had dined with him, but he cared nothing for all the lavish display and frivolity That was Lady Mary’s doing. It mattered nothing to him that he did not know half his guests by sight. They would have ignored him utterly if they had known him. They came there, they sponged on him, some of them fawned upon him for advice, but he knew what they really thought.
A graceful-looking woman, whose foolish, pretty face was exposed for a moment, flitted by. Minter shot out a hand and detained her with a grip that made her wince. The pretty face grew tearful. Lady Mary Minter was not overdone in the way of brains, she had married her husband because it suited his purpose to have a patrician wife to rule over his great ménage, but with his eyes open he knew that he was going to ally himself with a fool.
“Graham, you hurt me,” Lady Mary whispered.
“Then stop a bit,” Minter growled. “Let those brainless butterflies, those shallow sponges look after them selves for a moment. I asked you to do something for me.”
“Did you, Graham? I had forgotten.”
Minter’s eyes flashed with a murderous light. He came from the class where men beat their wives. Lady Mary fell back whimpering.
“I had forgotten,” she said. “But indeed I did what you asked. Mr. Desborough said he could stay till midnight. And Maude Beaumont remains to sleep. Indeed, I am not so foolish as you think me, Graham.”
“Ain’t ye?” Minter sneered. “Keep those two together. Desborough won’t go so long as Maude is kind to him. And make Kit Clive useful. How is Desborough dressed?”
“As a lawmaker of the early Venice period—like a Doge, in fact.”
“That will do. Don’t you leave him till I tell you, or—”
He glanced at her as he would have done at a badly-broken spaniel, his hand uplifted slightly; a less silly woman than Lady Mary would have been frightened.
He passed out of the great hall into a wide, dimly-lighted corridor, where couples who were not dancing were seated.
Nobody took the slightest notice of him, indeed he might have been one of the servants for all most of them knew or cared.
It was darker still at the end of the corridor. A figure dressed as a monk crept out of the shadows and whispered something in Minter’s ear. He flushed angrily.
“Well, you’ve got a cheek,” he growled. “You’re useful to me in the City, but I’ll wring your neck rather than ask you to my house, Bigglestone.”
“That’s all right,” said the other coolly. “I’m not here as a guest. And there are one or two City men that you would not like to be seen talking to. The thing was imperative, so I adopted this disguise, and here I am.”
“Anything wrong up yonder?” Minter asked uneasily.
“Well, I should say so. Suppose they put Eli Price in the witness-box to-morrow.”
Minter’s square jaw dropped. But the murderous expression deepened in his eyes.
“Do you mean to say they’ve spotted him amongst the other guests of His Majesty at Dartmoor?” he gasped.
“Well, if they have and he tells the truth when the case is called on to-morrow, I’m done. That big South African business collapses and I shall be a beggar. Jove, if some of my friends here only knew this!”
“It’s quite true,” Bigglestone went on. “If only Clifford Desborough wasn’t the leading barrister on the other side it wouldn’t matter. But seeing that he was the leader in the Crown against Bartlett he knows too much.”
“Can’t we manage to keep Eli Price away?” Minter suggested.
“It could be done for money.” Bigglestone smiled meaningly.
“Then let it be done. Money is no object now. To prevent that I am prepared to pour it out like water. Bigglestone, you’ve got a scheme?”
“Of course I have,” Bigglestone chuckled. “You find the money and I’ll not shirk the rest, seeing that it’s going to put £20,000 in my pocket. But I’ve got a better idea up my sleeve.”
“Well, out with it, man. None of your melodramatic mystery with me.”
Bigglestone looked cautiously around him. Nobody was within earshot.
“The thing is quite easy,” he said. “Square Desborough.”
“Of all the fools!” Minter snarled contemptuously. “There isn’t a harder-headed man at the bar than Clifford Desborough. I don’t say he’s particularly honest, but he knows which policy pays best. I admit that he is poor.”
“And pretty considerably in debt,” Bigglestone said meaningly.
“Granted. But lie has a safe seat in the House of Commons and he’s certain to be made Home Secretary when Clifton resigns, as he may at any moment. And he has made up his mind to marry Maude Beaumont who has a large fortune. You might as well try to square the Premier.”
Bigglestone winked knowingly. He believed in the integrity of no man. From his point of view it was only a matter of price. He led the way to a secluded seat amidst the palms and produced a bundle of long narrow strips of blue paper from his pocket. The papers had red stamps in the top left-hand corner.
“Will you kindly look at these?” he asked.
Minter surveyed them rapidly. As he did so the bulldog jaw was thrust out, there was a hard smile on his lips.
“I’ll try it,” he said, “dashed if I don’t. I’ll buy these of you.”
“You shall,” Bigglestone said hoarsely, “at their full value. Squeeze him, ruin him, let him know the tale you could tell his rigid, Puritan constituents. Look there. Who’s that?”
A tall figure in severe Venetian garb came along with a dainty little “Beatrice” on his arm. Both watchers recognized the figure of the man. Then, with a meaning glance, Bigglestone turned and vanished.
THE PRETTY LITTLE BEATRICE CLUNG somewhat unsteadily to the arm of her companion. She was just a trifle frightened that he had recognized her a little earlier in the evening, because the man of law had followed her pretty steadily of late.
Of all the pretty girls out that season none had attracted more attention than Maude Beaumont. To begin with, she had no dragon to protect her, nothing more than an invalid mother, who rarely went out into Society. Maude had health and beauty, moreover she was just one and twenty, and her large fortune was absolutely at her disposal.
She had her own gentle but effectual way of getting rid of the many lovers who had cast themselves at her feet. But there were two that she could not shake off—that eminent barrister and member of Parliament, Clifford Desborough, and Mr. Minter’s private secretary, Christopher, otherwise Kit Clive.
Kit was all right, a handsome, clever fellow, with a clear eye and an honest face, so honest that Maude wondered why he had remained two years with Minter. For Maude was the one particular friend of Lady Mary Minter, and her opportunities for meeting with the handsome private secretary were many.
But Clifford Desborough, K.C., followed her up with a pertinacity that frightened her. He had let her know pretty well that he intended to marry her, and he belonged to the class of men who generally get their own way.
In his own way, the keen man of law admired Maude; indeed, he loved her so far as he could love anything outside his ambition. Maude had money and birth; with a rich wife Desborough might have become Prime Minister.
To-night he had determined to settle his fate one way or another. He had allowed Maude to know that from his manner. She was glad that her face was masked. He had asked her to come outside in the corridor with him and against herself she had complied. It was weak of her, but there was a certain fascination about this man. Maude would have turned back, but it was too late now.
Was there nobody at hand to deliver her? Yes? Her heart throbbed hopefully as Minter rose from a seat close by and barred their further progress. With characteristic bluntness Minter went to the point.
“Very sorry to trouble you, Desborough,” he said. “And you, too, Miss Beaumont. No use either of you trying to disguise yourselves from me. I’ve got a most important message for you, Desborough. If Miss Beaumont will excuse me—”
“Oh, don’t mind me!” Maude said hastily. “I can wait!”
She scudded hurriedly away, so hurriedly that she ran almost into the arms of a man dressed in the period of Charles of pious memory.
“Well, if the gods are not good to me to-night!” he said.
“Mr. Clive?” said Maude. “But how did you know me?”
“Lady Mary gave you away,” said Chris coolly. “Knowing that she could never keep a secret, I got a description of your dress from her. Isn’t it hot? Let us go down and sit at the end of the corridor. There’s a little place there known only to myself.”
In his breezy, cheerful way he slipped Maude’s arm through his own. He did not fail to note that she was trembling violently. The little alcove was cool and secluded. Clive took off his mask, and Maude did the same. Afar off the band was playing, there was a splash of water somewhere near. The colour gradually came back to Maude’s cheeks.
“What has been frightening you?” Clive asked.
He looked down tenderly into his companion’s face There was a strong, manly air about him that appealed to the girl. He was so different from the rest, he never followed her, he never deferred his opinion to hers, and the admiration of his eyes was honest and sincere.
“I have had a narrow escape,” she said, with an unsteady smile.
“Oh, indeed! Somebody been trying to run away with you?”
“Well, not quite that,” Maude said, as she fanned herself slowly. “Mr. Clive, have you ever been in love in your life?”
“I have had the fever at times,” Chris said. “But not sincerely till lately. Why?”
“Oh, because—well, I don’t know. I have always been afraid of being married for my money. It would be such a horrible thing, you know.”
“Oh! So you are uncertain as to whether a certain gentleman—”
Maude nodded. Clive’s sunny face looked a little grave.
“If you happen to care for him,” he began, “why then—”
“But I don’t, I am sure that I don’t. He fascinates me. When I am with him I feel that I am bound to do just as he tells me. And at the same time I know perfectly well that he cares for nothing else but his ambition. He wants money to push him on in the world.”
Clive nodded. He began to understand.
“That description applies to Clifford Desborough,” he said.
“How clever you are,” Maude cried. “Sometimes I think I like him, and sometimes he frightens me. It would be a grand thing to be wife of a cabinet minister, but to think he only married you as a kind of ornament to his office! To think that one might have a life like Lady Mary!”
“Lady Mary is quite happy in her way,” Clive said coolly. “So long as she has plenty of money and pretty toys to play with she is perfectly contented. But you are different. You are not married to a scoundrel like Minter.”
“And yet you remain his private secretary?”
“Because I can’t help it,” Clive replied. “My father made his money in the city, but not quite in the same way that Minter does. When he died, he made it a sine qua non that I should spend five years in active business. Minter took me over, so to speak, from a man who died. A few weeks more, and I am free. No city for me after September. Still, the time has not been wasted.”
“Then you are not dependent on your work for your living?”
“I’ve got a great deal more money than you,” Clive said coolly, “so you need not look upon me with a suspicious eye at any rate. But I’m going to show you a means of getting rid of Desborough’s attention.”
Maude’s face flushed, and she smiled.
“If you only would,” she said eagerly. “If you only knew how he frightens and fascinates me. And he is hard and unfeeling.”
Maude’s hands went out to her companion impulsively. He caught them and held them in his strong grip and grasp that thrilled her. Then he drew her close to him, so that he could look down into her beautiful, troubled eyes.
“Marry me, darling,” he whispered. “Maude, I have known you for a year or more now. During that time we have been good friends. And the longer I have known you the greater is my love for you. Fortunately there is nothing to be said against me on the score of my position. As a poor secretary I could not have spoken. And I have always felt that you liked me, Maude. If you can come to love me—”
He paused, and looked into the rosy, flushed face. There was a smile on the girl’s lips, and something like tears in her eyes. A light broke in upon Clive.
“Maude,” he whispered. “Maude, do you care for me a little bit?”
She slipped her arms about his neck. There was happiness in her eyes now.
“I love you,” she said. “I loved you all the time, and I never knew it. It was only when you spoke that a veil seemed to fall away, and I could read my own heart clearly. But I never thought that you—”
“Well, other people did,” Clive said joyously. “Foolish as she is, Lady Mary knows. In spite of her follies and extravagances, she is a good woman at heart, and nobody will be more pleased. And to think that you did not know!”
“Perhaps I did,” Maude said shyly. “And so my troubles are ended. I was terribly afraid that I should have to marry Mr. Desborough.”
“Nobody but me,” whispered Clive as he gathered her his arms. “I shall take an opportunity of letting Mr. Desborough know of the little arrangement to-night, and there will be an end of him so far as we are concerned.”
Maude lay back on her lover’s shoulder with a little sigh of relief. It was all so sweet and so fair, and so different from what she had expected. And to think that she had loved Kit Clive all this time without being in the least aware of the fact! It was a long time before they returned to the ball-room. Most of the guests were unmasked as supper had been announced. Clifford Desborough was standing by the door as if anxiously looking for somebody. His face was white and set, his eyes were glittering with a steady, gleaming fire.
“I have been looking for you everywhere,” he said to Maude. His voice was hoarse and hard.
“We’ve been away on business,” said Clive cheerfully.
“Congratulate me. We shall want your advice later on over the marriage settlements.”
Desborough bowed and smiled mechanically. He bent his face low to hide its sudden pallor.
“Good Heavens!” he muttered. “That cord snapped too! When is it going to end?”
WHEN MINTER HAD STOPPED MAUDE and Clifford Desborough, the latter seemed to resent the intrusion of his host. He had taken Maude aside to put his fortune to the test. Ambitious, pushing, clever, absolutely certain of cabinet rank, there was one thing which the lawyer required, and that was a wife with plenty of money.
How necessary this was, he alone knew. The man was desperately in need of money. He stood on the narrow edge of ruin, it needed but a touch to send him either way. He might yet attain dizzy heights; on the other hand, if bankruptcy overtook him his political career was ended.
Therefore he kept his temper. It does not do to quarrel with millionaires who seem to require one’s services urgently. Perhaps here there was a chance to lay hands upon the cash that Desborough so sorely needed.
He looked around him hurriedly. He was about to say something to Maude Beaumont, but she had already slipped away. He saw her stopped by a masked figure that he recognized as Kit Clive, and something like an oath rose to his lips.
“If the matter is urgent,” he said, “why—?”
“Nothing more urgent under the sun,” said Minter. “Come along! What do you and I care for all this tomfoolery?”
Desborough forced a laugh. The money wasted here to-night would have made him a free man, and absolutely assured his future. A feeling of envy assailed him as he looked at the flowers and the pictures, and caught the distant flood of melody. A single word from Minter would have put him right. He wondered if his host was aware how desperate were his circumstances.
“We all like to relax at times,” he said. “Lead the way—”
Minter turned into a little room at the end of the corridor that chanced to be empty. He locked the door, and signified to Desborough to lay aside his mask. The latter accepted the proffered cigarette.
“What do you want me for?” Desborough asked.
Minter looked him straight in the face. There was a fighting gleam in his eyes, a hard expression on the bulldog mouth.
“I’ll come to the point at once,” he said. “I’m not one of those men who waste a lot of valuable time on what they call diplomacy. You have a big case coming on tomorrow—Mackness against the Certified Company. As you are aware, I am practically the company.”
“So I understand,” said Desborough. “And you are going to lose. Will that make any great difference to you?”
Minter’s great jaw came out with an ugly sweep.
“All the difference,” he said hoarsely. “Connect us with those smuggled arms and we forfeit our trading rights with all the South American States you know of. I’ve got every penny I can scrape together wrapped up in that business. If we fail now, down goes the whole house of cards.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Desborough said politely. “Your connexion with those smuggled arms is not on the face of my instructions, but I am going to prove it out of the mouth of one of your witnesses—Ericsson.”
“Ah, that is as I suspected! Now, listen to me. If you made it easy for Ericsson your clients would be none the wiser. It would be at worst no more than an error of judgment on your part. Nobody could blame you.”
“The mere suggestion is absurd,” Desborough said coldly. “People might say I had made a mistake, that is all—as you say, a mere error of judgment. Why?”
“Because you are going to commit that error of judgment.”
The words came out with a hoarse growl from Minter’s lips. There was no suggestion of compromise about him, no gilding of the pill. He was commanding Desborough to betray his client’s case, and abandon his own honour. Desborough stepped forward, thrilled to the finger-tips.
“I am going to sell my brief!” he gasped. “You scoundrel!”
Minter smiled. He was not in the least moved.
“Hard words break no bones!” he said. “I’m in a hole, my friend, an infernally deep hole. And you are in the same place. You get out on my shoulders, and then you pull me up afterwards. Or we are both ruined.”
“And why should I do this?” Desborough sneered.
“Upon my word—”
“Oh, drop it,” Minter said impatiently. “I’ve got you on the hip. For months you have been dealing with the money-lenders. You are hopelessly ruined. All those documents you have signed—those little bills—are in my hands. See.”
He held out the long slips of blue paper that Bigglestone had given him. He slapped the pile with a vicious hand.
“See here—and here,” he cried, “your signatures to all of them. I bought them up as a speculation. They are mine, you understand. Fourteen thousand pounds’ worth, and every penny overdue. My future Home Secretary, you are in my hands. I can make your fortune or I can make you bankrupt on Monday morning.”
Desborough staggered back. The full force of it utterly overcame him.
“Good Heavens,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t find as many shillings, man; have you no feeling, no sense of honour?”
His face was pale, the beads were running down his forehead. Minter thrust the suggestion aside with hard contempt.
“Don’t prate to me,” he said. “What are you trying to do? To catch a girl you care nothing about for the sake of her money. And you are right because money is everything, and truth and honour mere empty sounds. The people who come here sneer at me, but they would black my boots for a scrap of early information. I could walk on a carpet of coronets if I liked.”
Desborough paced backwards and forwards. He was like a rat caught in a trap. He knew this man would have no more mercy on him than a terrier with the rat aforesaid. The steady eye and the cruel jaw showed that.
“Well, get on,” Minter said impatiently. “You are perfectly safe. You said just now that the omission of a few questions would not be deemed anything more than an error of judgment. It would make no difference to you. It would leave me as I stand instead of stripping me of everything.”
“I am thinking,” Desborough said slowly.
“Then let me think for you,” Minter replied with an oath. “Think of the place that you have so fairly won filled by another. Think of your smug constituency holding up their hands in horror at the news that their respected member has lost over five thousand pounds on the turf. A bankrupt! After that there would be no fresh start, no whitewashing for you. The people I mention are the backbone of your following: oily Pharisees, who may yet force you on to the Premiership. Think of the honour and glory that lies before you, all for a few minutes of discreet silence. Think—but I am wasting time. Why parley with me, why juggle with what you call a conscience? You have made up your mind already.”
“If you gave me time.”
“Not an hour, not a moment,” cried Minter instantly, following up his advantage. “You can’t find the money to pay me off. It is only when a man starts to borrow that he discovers how lonely he is. Do you accept my terms or not?”
Minter put the question in a hoarse whisper. He bent forward, with his eyes almost glaring into those of his unhappy victim. There was no disguise about him. He was proposing a vile and dishonourable course, and he took no shame in it.
And the worst of it was, Desborough was perfectly safe. Nobody would find out what he was going to do.
“I have only your word to rely on,” he said feebly.
“To-morrow these bills shall be passed over to you. As to my word—why, you have got to accept what I offer you.”
Desborough lunged out desperately at his tempter. In a sudden despairing fury he reached for the door, turned the key, and rushed down the corridor. All his emotion was absolutely lost on Minter. He followed a moment later until he came to the spot where he hoped to meet the disguised Bigglestone. The latter rose from behind a cluster of waving palms.
“Well!” he asked breathlessly. “Well?”
“Gone off in a fury,” Minter chuckled. “But he didn’t defy me, and I moved him as he has never been moved before.”
“Then you didn’t come to any arrangement?”
“Not definitely,” Minter replied, with the same diabolical chuckle. “but for all that the thing is as good as done.”
OF THE DARKER SIDE OF human nature Minter was a perfect judge. He knew perfectly well that there was no need to press Desborough further. The man had only one vulnerable point, and that was his ambition. He was hard and keen and shrewd; from early manhood he had made up his mind to become a Cabinet Minister. And now he knew perfectly well that only one feeble life stood between himself and his goal.
Unfortunately he had made too much haste to become rich. He knew the value of money, and he had longed for it. He had gambled and speculated, with the result that he was up to his ears in debt and difficulty; every month that he had struggled along only landed him deeper in the mire.
And here was a way out of it. Minter had bought up all his bonds with a view to force him to betray the interests of his clients. And he could do so without anybody but Minter being any the wiser. Once that was done he would be free from debt. His ordinary trade creditors did not trouble him in the least. To a man making his income at the Bar they mattered little. He might have made more money still by his profession had he not been so keen on politics.
All this passed through Desborough’s mind as he tossed and turned on a sleepless pillow. He did not debate the matter at all; in his heart of hearts he felt quite certain that he should do exactly what Minter requested. Otherwise he might just as well end it all by a leap from Waterloo Bridge.
There was no trace of all these conflicting thoughts on Desborough’s face as he came down to the Law Courts presently. He was perfectly master of himself now. As he turned into the building he came face to face with Minter. The short, thick-set figure of the millionaire was clad in tweeds; he had a soft felt hat on his head. He came forward and shook hands as if he and Desborough had parted the best of friends.
“Got anything important on?” he asked.
“Nothing very striking,” Desborough said grimly. “A little case where you are more or less interested—at least you may be interested later on.”
“Only indirectly,” said Minter indifferently. “Can’t always be answerable for the folly of one’s servants, you know. By the way, have you heard the news? My secretary Clive is engaged to Miss Beaumont.”
Desborough took the blow smilingly. He had been forewarned.
“So Clive told me last night,” he said. “A good thing for him. There will be a run on millionaire secretaryships by penniless men about town after this.”
“Clive has more money than Miss Beaumont,” said Minter. “He merely took up city work under the terms of his father’s will. So long!”
The men drifted apart. Minter’s parasite Bigglestone came gliding up, a small, lithe man with a crafty face.
“That looked all right,” he said meaningly.
“Exactly what I said it would be,” Minter replied. “He’ll do it, or rather, he will leave it undone. Otherwise he would never have talked to me in that friendly manner. The last prop is cut away, too. He hoped to marry Miss Beaumont. If he could have got her consent last night he would have snapped his fingers at me. As it is, my secretary very kindly took the job from off my hands. Your interests in our little venture are quite safe, Bigglestone.”
“Don’t forget that Price is to be called,” Bigglestone whispered. “Price feels that he has been a victim. He thinks that if we had played him up fairly he would never have landed in Portland. He only comes to verify a signature to one of the many documents in the case, but he might get a chance of telling a tale or two.”
Minter’s eyes gleamed.
“I gave you a free hand,” he said. “I told you not to spare money. You intimated last night that you had a scheme to—”
“And so I have. Once let me get the ear of Price and I’ll soon square him. But it is Ericsson that I am afraid of.”
“I tell you that Desborough does not ask any dangerous questions.”
“Perhaps not. But Ericsson is one of the greatest cowards in the world. He has been drinking a great deal lately to steady his nerves. As a matter of fact, he has knocked his nervous system all to pieces. For two days I have kept him well in hand, with the result that I had to give him brandy to-day to make anything like a man of him at all.”
Minter’s deep brows came together in a heavy frown. He was playing desperately for a heavy stake, and his path was strewn with thorns. It was just possible that one of his own tools might cut him, but if he could see today well over, he did not care for the future. He passed into court with a jaunty air, but his heart was beating a little faster than usual. It rested entirely on Desborough whether the case took a sensational turn or not; on the broad issue Minter did not mind whether he got a verdict or not.
For some time the case proceeded smoothly. Presently the Crown counsel announced his intention of calling a witness. The usher took up the cry, and the name of Ericsson resounded far and near.
The man came at length, white and shaking, with a lip that trembled and a hand that grasped the edge of the witness box like a drowning sailor. He seemed to be terribly frightened about something.
Yet he gave his evidence fairly well. Evidently he had been carefully coached. Minter listened with his head well down. He had no desire to confuse the witness by meeting his shifty glance. Desborough was approaching the point where the fatal questions might or might not be put.
“It’s coming,” Bigglestone whispered to his client.
“Hold your tongue, fool,” Minter muttered between his teeth. “Those questions are not going to be asked at all. Once that chap is out of the box we shall be safe. We are quite clear up to now.”
All the same the witness was getting confused. He could not remember anything. He was mixed up in his mind with a certain man called Price. If Price could say this or that he would be able to proceed. Minter listened, with the big veins in his forehead swelling with anger.
“Who is this Price?” the judge asked impatiently.
“Forthcoming witness, my lord,” said Desborough, “whom I shall call.”
“Call him now,” the Bench suggested. “Let this witness stand down.”
Desborough bowed. Price was on the lips of the usher. They called again, but there was no response. There was just a minute’s pause when a messenger handed a telegram up to the solicitors’ table. One of the attorneys there read it with a start, and then passed it on to Desborough. The few spectators in court thrilled with the expectation of a dramatic surprise. They were not disappointed.
“A most extraordinary thing has happened, my lord,” Desborough said. “This is from Sergeant Farringdon, who was sent down with two constables to bring the man Price from Portland.”
“The man Price being a convict!” the judge said.
“Precisely, my lord. It appears that the convict and the escort got safely as far as Clavering, where there is a stay of a few minutes. It is a small station, and there were few people about. Without any warning five or six men came from another carriage, overpowered and maltreated Farringdon and the constables, and drove off with the prisoner in a dog-cart. The sergeant adds that recapture is inevitable, but it may be a day or two before it takes place.”
A murmur of surprise followed this extraordinary statement. Minter sat with his face still hung down, but there was a look of fiendish satisfaction upon it. So far as he could see the situation was absolutely saved.
“Was this your scheme?” he whispered to Bigglestone.
“It was,” the latter chuckled, “and a precious good one too, I flatter myself. A fiver apiece did the trick, with railway fare. You may be pretty sure that I shall see Price before the police get a chance. I wouldn’t take £30,000 for my share in our little venture now.”
“A most astounding thing!” the Bench murmured. “Under the circumstances, what do you propose to do, Mr. Desborough?”
“There is no alternative but to ask for an adjournment for a few days, my lord,” said Desborough. “We cannot get on very well without the man Price, and we must give the police some little latitude. Say Monday?”
“Very well. The case is adjourned till Monday. Call the next, please.”
Minter slipped out of the court, followed by Bigglestone. He was a strong man, but he did not disdain the brandy that he called for at the nearest bar. Desborough came out of court more slowly and thoughtfully. He felt that he had a reprieve. He had not abandoned honour yet. He still had a chance.
BEING A BACHELOR, CLIFFORD DESBOROUGH’S ménage was not an expensive one. He had three rooms in the Temple, and where he had his consultations was at once his living and smoking room after office hours.
To do the man justice, he was no sybarite. He had been busy all the afternoon and evening; he had swallowed an indifferently-cooked chop and some dubious claret, and now over a pipe he had turned to a mass of papers again. A big pile of invitations he had contemptuously swept upon the floor.
The clerk came in with two or three leather-bound volumes under his arm.
“Here are what you want, sir,” he said. “They are the diaries of the late Mr. James Beaumont, the gentleman who originally obtained the concessions that more or less formed the base of the Mackness-Minter litigation.”
Desborough looked up with an interested face.
“I’m glad you got those,” he said. “A lucky find, Mellor.”
“Well, yes, sir. Mr. Mackness found them after he bought Mr. Beaumont’s practice. I have not ventured to investigate, but there are some private matters there that might as well be relegated to obscurity. In fact, Mr. Mackness’ solicitor asked in the present action that they should be destroyed after you had made what use you like of them.”
Desborough nodded a dismissal and the discreet clerk disappeared. It was some little time before the barrister had occasion to refer to the diaries. He picked up the first volume and skimmed it over. There were points likely to be of use to him in the case, and these he duly noted. But there were other matters also that few men confide to a diary. It seemed odd to Desborough that he should be looking at the life of the man whose daughter he had hoped to marry.
He read on, riveted by what was before his eyes. For the minute he had forgotten all about the case that these books led up to. He was reading sacred family secrets. Not that there was anything strange in this, seeing that lawyers and barristers lived in an atmosphere of this kind.
He should have put the book down, he should have destroyed it. But he did nothing of the kind. He read on and on until the clock struck ten. Then he lighted a cigarette and lay back in a chair.
His face was hard and set, there was a strange gleam in his eyes.
“Here is a chance,” he muttered, “the chance of a lifetime. Only to a member of the law could such a thing happen. Fate places Maude Beaumont’s future in my hands. I have discovered a shameful family secret. If I could go to her and—”
He paused, his mind working fast.
“I can save myself by doing what Minter asks me,” he went on, “but by so doing I place myself entirely in the fellow’s power. Sooner or later he will give me another disgraceful task to do, sooner or later, he will drag me down. And in a few weeks I shall be a Cabinet Minister. If only I could have won Maude’s consent to marry me, I could have defied him. With my prospects and the knowledge that I was engaged to a wealthy girl I could have raised a loan to clear me. As it is, Fortune has stepped in and saved me from dishonour—as yet. I have a few days now to wriggle out of Minter’s net. Maude has promised to marry Clive, but I could break off that match.”
Desborough’s face grew white and the gleam in his eyes deepened. He was contemplating a dastardly and dishonourable deed. Fate had placed a tremendous weapon in his hands. Should he throw it aside or should he use it? Anything to get out of Minter’s clutches. He would have to proclaim himself a scoundrel to a girl he respected, who believed in him, but that did not matter.
It was a horrible position to be placed in altogether. But to remain under the thumb of Minter was intolerable. Sooner or later that was bound to spell absolute ruin. He sat up and glanced at the clock.
Only a little past ten, and social London was just beginning to enjoy itself. Most of the dinners were over by this time and the receptions beginning. Where was Maude Beaumont most likely to be to-night? Lady Mary Minter had said that she was dining at Park Lane to-night and that she was going on to Mrs. Hackett-Smith’s party afterwards. It was pretty certain that Miss Beaumont would be there also. And Mrs. Hackett-Smith had sent Desborough a card. Whether he had accepted or not made no difference, Mrs. Hackett-Smith was always ready to smile on successful men, and next week he might be Home Secretary.
“I’ll go and take the chance!” Desborough muttered.
He passed into his bedroom and dressed quickly. The barrister was put aside for the moment. Half an hour later the polished, easy man of Society was bending over the hand of his hostess and talking smoothly of nothing in particular.
He had to wait some little time. The rooms and the stairs were crowded. Desborough was preparing to get upon the track of his quarry by skilful questioning, when he caught the flash of Maude Beaumont’s dress. She fluttered into a little alcove accompanied by Lady Mary Minter. A well-known Society journalist accompanied them.
Desborough pushed his way into the alcove with a vague air of expecting to find nobody there. There was just room for four.
“Here is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I was feeling like Robinson Crusoe. And four really is company. I’ll take this seat, Lady Mary.”
“You look worked to death,” Denton the journalist suggested. “Anything sensational? I envy you barristers. I have to depend for my copy a great deal on imagination, whereas you have always something real to go upon.”
“A barrister meets strange coincidences,” Desborough said. “I met one to-night.”
“Scandal!” Lady Mary cried. “Please, please go on. I’m bored to death!”
“I’d far rather it was fiction,” Maude observed. “Is it very interesting?”
“I fancy you will find it so,” Desborough replied. He had his voice perfectly under control, he spoke slowly and distinctly. “Probably I should not have mentioned it had Denton not been present. Anyway, here is a plot for a novel. We will say that I am a successful barrister with a great prize well within my grasp. I am young and ambitious, but, like most young and ambitious men, I am very poor. Not only am I very poor, but I am disgracefully in debt at the same time. My Oxford creditors nearly drove me mad. To try to pay them I speculated till I was in a worse plight than ever. There is a synopsis of the first act in a nutshell.”
“And a very good one, too,” Denton murmured approvingly. “I am deeply interested.”
Maude looked curiously into the story-teller’s face, but she could make nothing of it. All around her the chatter of the frivolous was going on, the outward seeming of absolute happiness rich Society always has, and yet she felt cold and uneasy. There seemed to be some meaning behind it all.
“Act II,” Desborough went on. “The man I speak of must be saved in some way. As I speak in a Society atmosphere let me give you a Society flavour to the story. The man seeks a rich wife. A prosaic way out of the difficulty, but a safe one. He finds his ideal, who is lovely and good and clever and very rich. But she has the bad taste to care for another—she is engaged to another, in fact. Most men would look further, but not my barrister, because he is in a position to find things out. In this case he does find things out. He is engaged in a certain case, and in his researches into that case he consults some diaries written by the late father of the girl he wants to make his wife. There fortune comes to the aid of the ambitious young man. In that diary is the story of a family secret. The young lady has a sister. Years ago that sister made a secret match with a man of dubious reputation. All this is told in the diary which was consulted merely for dry business purposes. The newly-married couple were in a shipwreck and their names were given amongst the missing. As a matter of fact they were not drowned. Moreover, they were not married, for the scoundrel of a man had a wife alive all the time. The mother of the poor girl was not told, she does not know to this day. If she did, it would kill her.”
Desborough paused as if for breath. He glanced at Maude, whose face was partly hidden by her fan. He could see that the face was white as marble, the fan rustled as if shaken by the wind. Desborough had learnt all he required. Maude had not heard this story for the first time.
“Now we come to Act III,” he went on quite gaily. “The other daughter knows the story. My pushing young barrister is going to make her his wife. He tells her that she must give up the other man and marry him. For the honour of the family she is compelled to sacrifice her own feelings. The scandal still remains secretly buried, and that man and that girl save one another. End of Act III.”
“Capital!” Denton cried. “So far, a really gripping story. But what about the end of the play—the last act?”
“THAT IS AS FAR AS I have gone,” Desborough said. “Some papers I found to-day suggested the romance to me, and I amused myself by working it out as I came along. You can finish the story as you please. It is a matter of indifference to me whether that fellow repents or holds the girl in his power. But the class of man I have in my mind would never sacrifice his career.”
A band was playing somewhere near. The noisy chatter was going on. Maude lowered her fan. Her face was deadly pale, but there was a look of strange contempt not unmixed with pleading yearning in her eyes that was lost on all but Desborough.
“Would your friend trade on a professional secret like that?” she asked.
“You find the story convincing?” Desborough asked with a hard little laugh.
“Horribly convincing,” Maude shuddered. “It seems strange that such scoundrels should be allowed to live. But really you have carried me away. I suppose it is because I am hot and tired. Take me somewhere and get me an ice.”
She flashed a challenge at Desborough for a moment. She was going to see this thing through without delay. Desborough offered his arm. His feelings were strongly mixed as he walked along. The task of telling a woman whom he honoured and admired that he was a scoundrel was accomplished.
“Take me to the garden,” Maude said. “It will be quiet there.”
They found a secluded spot at length, a shady seat under the swaying light of a Chinese lantern. Maude turned upon her companion instantly.
“Now let us understand each other,” she said, with heaving bosom. “I am not blind enough to think that you told your story for sheer amusement.”
“My dear Maude, nothing is further from my thoughts at this moment.”
“Miss Beaumont, if you please,” Maude said coldly. “Well, for the present, if you like. But I beg your pardon. You were speaking. Go on.”
“I will. You are the needy, ambitious, outwardly successful barrister. At the present moment you stand between a shining career and utter collapse. Therefore, you must marry money. It all comes down to money in the end. If you want money, ten, twenty thousand pounds—”
“Stop,” Desborough cried hoarsely. Even his nature was galled at last. “I cannot stoop to that. Strange as it may seem, I still have my pride. My mood is not to blackmail you. If you only knew how I respect and esteem you—”
He came a step nearer, but Maude recoiled with horror.
“You fill me with contempt,” she said. “How dare you pollute such words with your lips! You have a mother, a good woman.”
“You have a mother too, which brings us to the point.”
“Oh, you are shameless! You have me in your power, you have it in your hands to cast a slur over a good and honourable name, to strike one of the sweetest, dearest women on earth to the heart. Of course the miserable girl you told of in your story was my sister. My father’s diary came into your hands for business purposes, and you abuse their secrets like this! Unless I promise to become your wife, you will tell this shameful story.”
Desborough was silent for the moment. There was something in the pleasing scorn of the girl’s voice that touched him. He was not quite so hard as he had imagined. But the thoughts of Minter and the gripping power of the man drove all feeling back. He was not going to stay his hand now.
“I must do it,” he said hoarsely. “I cannot sacrifice myself now. As your mother is to you, so is my ambition to me. I am Ambition’s Slave. A day or two and I shall be a Cabinet Minister or a beggar.”
“A beggar or an honest man?” Maude cried.
“You are merely wasting time,” said Desborough impatiently. “I have told you everything. You have seen the strong man, you have witnessed his struggle for his darling sin.”
“And from the bottom of my heart I pity you.”
“Pity me! Why—why on earth should you pity me?”