The Man from Morocco E-Book

Edgar Wallace

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

James Lexington Morlake, gentleman of leisure, Lord of the Manor of World and divers other titles which he rarely employed, unlocked the drawer of his elaborate Empire writing-table and gazed abstractedly into its depths. It was lined with steel and there were four distinct bolts. Slowly he put in his hand and took out first a folded square of black silk, then a businesslike automatic pistol, then a roll of fine leather... Suspense novel which takes the reader from London to Sussex and then to Tangier. Edgar Wallace, at the turn of the century and the next two decades, was a writing machine. He wrote scores of novels, plays, short stories, articles, and his most incredible popular work, the screenplay to the famous „"King Kong"”.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE BLACK

II. THE LADY OF CREITH

III. THE HEAD OF THE CREITHS

IV. A CALLER AT WOLD HOUSE

V. THE MONKEY AND THE GOURD

VI. HAMON TELLS HIS NEWS

VII. INTO THE STORM

VIII. THE ROBBER

IX. MR. HAMON LOSES MONEY

X. THE FRAME-UP

XI. JANE SMITH

XII. MISS LYDIA HAMON

XIII. AT BLACKHEATH

XIV. CAUGHT!

XV. JOAN MAKES A CONFESSION

XVI. MR. HAMON IS SHOWN OUT

XVII. GENTLE JULIUS

XVIII. THE TRIAL

XIX. THE TEA SHOP

XX. A CALLER

XXI. A VOLUME OF EMERSON

XXII. WELCOME HOME

XXIII. THE NEW HOUSEKEEPER

XXIV. JIM LEARNS THINGS

XXV. THE CABLEGRAM

XXVI. JOAN CALLED JANE

XXVII. MRS. CORNFORD’S LODGER

XXVIII. MR. WELLING GIVES ADVICE

XXIX. A LOVE CALL

XXX. SADI

XXXI. JOAN TELLS THE TRUTH

XXXII. CAPTAIN WELLING UNDERSTANDS

XXXIII. THE FOREIGN SAILOR

XXXIV. THE CORD

XXXV. THE LETTER THAT CAME BY POST

XXXVI. THE BANNOCKWAITE BRIDE

XXXVII. THE LETTER

XXXVIII. A YACHTING TRIP

XXXIX. THE CHAPEL IN THE WOOD

XL. THE LOVER

XLI. A PHOTOGRAPH

XLII. CAPTAIN WELLING: INVESTIGATOR

XLIII. THE MAN IN THE NIGHT

XLIV. MURDER

XLV. WANTED

XLVI. POINTED SHOES

XLVII. THE YACHT

XLVIII. MUTINY

XLIX. THE MAN ON THE BEACH

L. THE PLAY

LI. THE COURTYARD

LII. THE HOUSE OF SADI

LIII. THE HOUSE IN THE HOLLOW

LIV. A VISIT TO THE BASHA

LV. THE LADY FROM LISBON

LVI. CAPTAIN WELLING ADDS A POSTSCRIPT

LVII. THE RIDE TO THE HILLS

LVIII. AT THE WHITE HOUSE

LIX. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

LX. THE MARRIAGE

LXI. THE BEGGAR HUSBAND

LXII. THE ESCAPE

LXIII. THE END OF SADI

LXIV. A MOORISH WOMAN’S RETURN

LXV. THE REVEREND GENTLEMAN

LXVI. A LUNCHEON PARTY

LXVII. THE RETURN

LXVIII. THE END OF HAMON

I. THE BLACK

James Lexington Morlake, gentleman of leisure, Lord of the Manor of Wold and divers other titles which he rarely employed, unlocked the drawer of his elaborate Empire writing-table and gazed abstractedly into its depths. It was lined with steel and there were four distinct bolts. Slowly he put in his hand and took out first a folded square of black silk, then a businesslike automatic pistol, then a roll of fine leather. He unfastened a string that was tied about the middle and unrolled the leather on the writing-table. It was a hold-all of finely-grained sealskin, and in its innumerable pockets and loops was a bewildering variety of tools, grips, ratchets–each small, each of the finest tempered steel.

He examined the diamond-studded edge of a bore, no larger than a cheese tester, then replacing the tool, he rolled up the hold-all and sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed meditatively upon the articles he had exposed.

James Morlake’s flat in Bond Street was, perhaps, the most luxurious apartment in that very exclusive thoroughfare. The room in which he sat, with its high ceiling fantastically carved into scrolls and arabesques by the most cunning of Moorish workmen, was wide and long and singular. The walls were of marble, the floor an amazing mosaic covered with the silky rugs of Ispahan. Four hanging lamps, delicate fabrics of silver and silk, shed a subdued light.

With the exception of the desk, incongruously gaudy in the severe and beautiful setting, there was little furniture. A low divan under the curtained window, a small stool, lacquered a vivid green, and another chair was all.

The man who sat at the writing-table might have been forty–he was four years less–or fifty. His was the face of a savant, eager, alive, mobile. There was a hint of laughter in his eyes, more than a hint of sadness. A picturesque and most presentable person was James Lexington Morlake, reputedly of New York City (though some doubted this) and now of 823 New Bond Street in the County of London and of Wold House in the County of Sussex. His evening coat fitted the broad shoulders perfectly; the white bow at his collar was valet-tied.

He looked up from the table and its sinister display and clapped his hands once. Through the silken curtain that veiled the far end of the room came a soft-footed little Moor, his spotless white djellaba and crimson tarboosh giving him a certain vividness against the soft background.

“Mahmet, I shall be going away to-night–I will let you know when I am returning.” He spoke in Moorish, which is the purest of the three Arabics. “When, by the favour of God, I return, I shall have work for you.”

Mahmet raised his hand in salute, then, stepping forward lightly, kissed each lapel of James Morlake’s dress coat before he kissed his own thumb, for Morlake was, by certain standards, holy to the little slave man he had bought in the marketplace of Rahbut.

“I am your servant, haj,” he said. “You will wish to talk with your secretary?”

Morlake nodded, and, with a quick flutter of salaaming hands, Mahmet disappeared. He had never ceased to be amused by this description of Binger. “Secretary” was the delicate euphemism of the Moor who would not say “servant” of any white man.

Mr. Binger appeared, a short, stout man with a very red face and a very flaxen moustache, which he rapidly twirled in moments of embarrassment. Without the evidence of the neatly parted hair and the curl plastered over his forehead, he was obviously “old soldier.”

He looked at his employer and then at the kit of tools on the table, and sighed.

“Goin’ hout, sir?” he asked dolefully.

He was that unusual type of Cockney, the man who put aspirates where none were intended. Not one Londoner in ten thousand has this trick, ninety per cent. may drop an “h”–only the very few find it.

“I’m going out; I may be away for some days. You know where to find me.”

“I hope so, sir,” said the gloomy Binger. “I hope I shan’t find you where I’m always expectin’ to find you–in a hawful prison cell.”

James Morlake laughed softly.

“You were never designed by providence to be a burglar’s valet, Binger,” he said, and Mr. Binger shivered.

“Don’t use that word, sir, please! It makes me tremble with horrer! It’s not for the likes of me to criticise, which I’ve never done. An’ if you hadn’t been a burglar I’d have been a corpse. You ran a risk for me and I’m not likely to forget it!”

Which was true. For one night, James Lexington Morlake, in the course of business, had broken into a warehouse of which Binger was caretaker. Morlake took the warehouse en route to a bigger objective–there was a bank at the end of the warehouse block–and he had found an almost lifeless Binger who had fallen through a trap and had broken a leg in the most complicated manner it is possible to break a leg. And Morlake had stopped and tended him; carried him to the hospital, though Binger guessed him for what he was, “The Black”–the terror of every bank manager in the kingdom. In this way both men, taking the most amazing risks, came into acquaintance. Not that it was, perhaps, any great risk for James Morlake, for he understood men.

He selected a cigarette from the gold case he took from his pocket, and lit it.

“One of these days, perhaps I’ll become a respectable member of society, Binger,” he said, a chuckle in his voice.

“I ‘ope so, sir, I do most sincerely pray you will,” said Binger earnestly. “It’s not a nice profession–you’re hout all hours of the night … it’s not healthy! Speaking as a hold soldier, sir, I tell you that honesty is the best policy.”

“How the devil did you know that there was an ‘h’ in ‘honesty?’” asked James Morlake admiringly.

“I pronounced it, sir,” said Binger.

“That is what I mean–now, Binger, listen to me. I want the car at the corner of Albemarle Street at two o’clock. It is raining a little, so have the hood up. Don’t be within a dozen yards of the car when I arrive. Have an Oxford number-plate behind and the Sussex plate under the seat. A vacuum flask with hot coffee and a packet of sandwiches–and that’s all.”

Binger, at the parting of the curtains, struggled to express what he felt was improper and even sinful to say.

“Good luck, sir,” he said faintly.

“I wish you meant it,” said James Morlake as he rose and, catching up the long black coat from the divan, slipped pistol and tools into his pocket….

At the Burlington Street Safe Deposit, the night watchman had a stool on which he might sit in the lone long watches. It was a stool with one leg in the centre, and had this great advantage, that, if its occupant dozed, he fell. Nature, however, evolves qualities to meet every human emergency, and in the course of the years the night watchman, by leaning his elbow on a projecting ledge and stiffening his body against the wall, could enjoy a comfortable condition of coma that approximated to sleep….

“Sorry!” said a gentle voice.

The watchman woke with a start and stumbled to his feet, reaching for the revolver that should have been on the little wooden ledge.

“Your gun is in my pocket and the alarm is disconnected,” said the man in black, and the eyes that showed through the taut silk mask that covered his face twinkled humorously. “March!”

The night man, dazed and already searching his mind for excuses that would relieve him of the charge of sleeping on duty, obeyed.

The vaults of the Burlington Street Safe Deposit are underground, and for the use of the watchman there is a small concrete apartment fitted with an electric stove and a folding table. There is also a small safe built into the wall.

“In here,” said the man in black. “Face the wall and save my soul from the hideous crime of murder.”

Standing with his nose to concrete, the watchman heard the snap of a lock and the jingle of keys. In the safe were kept the pass keys and duplicates, and normally it could not be opened except by the President or Secretary of the company. The stranger seemed to experience no difficulty in dispensing with the help of these officers.

There came the thud of the room door closing, and then the turn of the key. After that, silence, except for the shrill whistle of air through the overhead ventilator. In ten minutes the visitor was back again, and the watchman saw him replace the keys he had taken, close and lock the safe.

“That is all, I think,” said the stranger. “I have stolen very little–just enough to pay for my vacation and a new car. One must live.”

“I’ll get fired over this!” groaned the watchman.

“It depends on the lie you tell,” said the mask, standing in the doorway, twirling his automatic alarmingly. “If you say that you were drugged, as the night patrol at the Home Counties Bank said, you may find people sceptical….”

“What about the hall-man?” asked the watchman hopefully.

“He is in his box, asleep … veritably doped by an ingenious method of my own,” said the intruder.

He slammed the door, and again the key turned. It seemed to turn twice, and so it proved, for when the custodian tried the door it opened readily. But The Black had gone.

Three headquarters men were at the safe deposit within a few minutes of the alarm sounding. They found the hall-keeper slowly recovering his senses and the night watchman voluble and imaginative.

“Don’t tell me that stuff about drugs,” said Chief Inspector Wall irritably. “It may go in the case of the hall-man, but you were asleep, and as soon as he turned a gun on you, you played rabbit. That’s your story, and I won’t listen to any other.”

The hall-man could offer no explanation. He was sitting in his little office drinking coffee that he had made, and that was all he remembered.

“Keep that coffee-cup for analysis,” said Wall. “The man must have been on the premises–it was easy once he doped the hall-keeper.”

The upper part of the safe deposit was let out in office suites, the ground floor and basement being the premises of the deposit. A broad passage led from the street to the vault entrance, and was barred half-way down with a heavy steel gate to which the hall-man sitting in his office on the inside alone had the key.

“The thing was simple,” said Wall, when he had finished his cross- examination. “Peters left his office and went down to see the night man. In some manner The Black got through–he’ll open any lock. After that he had only to watch and wait.”

In the early hours of the morning the secretary of the Safe Deposit arrived, and accompanied the police in a more thorough search through the inner vaults.

One little safe was unlocked. It was that which stood in the name of James Morlake, and the safe was entirely empty.

II. THE LADY OF CREITH

Stephens, the butler at Creith House, read of the robbery in the morning newspaper, and, being of a communicative nature, he carried the news to his master with his morning coffee. He might have created a greater sensation had he told the guest of the house, but he disliked Mr. Ralph Hamon for many reasons, and added to his dislike was a certain uneasiness of mind. A servant may find pleasure in his prejudices only so long as they are directed toward the uninfluential. So Mr. Ralph Hamon had appeared on his first few visits to the Earl of Creith. His attitude of deference toward the head of the house, his humility in the presence of the young lady, his eagerness to please, emphasised his inferiority. But his desire to stand well with the folk of Creith House did not extend to the servants. The tips he gave were paltry or were pointedly withheld, but for this Stephens and his staff were prepared, for Mr. Hamon’s chauffeur had advertised his meanness in advance.

It was the change in the financier’s attitude toward the family that worried Stephens and caused his plump, smooth face to wrinkle in uncomfortable thought.

In the early days he had addressed the Earl as “my lord”–and only servants and tenants and tradesmen “my lord nobility.” And Lady Joan had been “your ladyship.” Now it was “my dear Creith” and “my dear young lady,” more often than not in a tone of good-natured contempt.

Stephens stood at the long window of the banqueting hall, staring across the broad expanse of shaven lawn to the river that traced the northern boundary of the Creith acres. It was a glorious morning in early autumn. The trees held to their deep green, but here and there the russet and gold of autumnal foliage showed on the wooded slopes of No Man’s Hill. Sunlight sparkled on the sluggish Avon, the last wraith of mist was curling through the pines that crested the hill, and the tremendous silence of the countryside was broken only by the flurry of wings as a hen pheasant flew clumsily from covert to covert.

“Morning, Stephens.”

Stephens turned guiltily as he heard the voice of the man about whom he was at that moment thinking so disrespectfully.

Ralph Hamon had come noiselessly into the panelled hall. He was a fair man of middle height, stockily built, inclined to stoutness. Stephens put his age at forty-five, being inclined, for personal reasons, to discount the visitor’s slight baldness. Mr. Hamon’s large face was sallow and usually expressionless. His high, bald forehead, his dark, deep-set eyes and the uncompromising line of his hard mouth suggested learning. Stephens was reminded of a hateful schoolmaster he had known in his youth. The baldness was emphasised by the floss-like wisp of hair that grew thinly on the crown, and was especially noticeable when he stooped to pick up a pin from the polished floor.

“That is lucky,” he said, as he pushed the pin into the lapel of his well-fitting morning coat. “There’s no better way of starting the day than by getting something for nothing, Stephens.”

“No, sir,” said Stephens. He had a desire to point out that the pin was somebody’s property, but he refrained. “There has been another Black robbery, sir,” he said.

Hamon snatched the paper from his hand, frowning.

“A Black robbery–where?”

He read and his frown deepened.

“The Burlington this time,” he said, speaking to himself. “I wonder– –?” He glared at Stephens, and the stout man wilted. “I wonder,” said Mr. Hamon again, and then, abruptly: “Lord Creith is not down?”

“No, sir.”

“And Lady Joan?”

“Her ladyship is in the park. She went riding an hour ago.”

“Humph!”

Mr. Hamon’s thick nose wrinkled as he threw down the newspaper. Overnight he had asked Joan Carston to ride with him, and she had made the excuse that her favourite hack had gone lame. Stephens was not a thought reader, but he remembered hastily certain instructions he had received.

“Her ladyship didn’t think she would be able to ride, but her horse had got over his lameness this morning.”

“Humph!” said Mr. Hamon again.

He took a quill toothpick from his pocket and nibbled at it.

“Lady Joan told me that she had put somebody in one of the cottages on the estate–at least, she didn’t tell me, but I heard her mention the fact to Lord Creith. Who is it?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Stephens truthfully. “I believe it is a lady and her daughter … her ladyship met her in London and gave her the cottage for a holiday.”

One corner of Hamon’s mouth lifted.

“Being a philanthropist, eh?” he sneered.

Stephens could only wonder at the cool assurance of a man who, a year before, had almost grovelled to the girl about whom he could now speak with such insolent familiarity.

Hamon walked slowly through the stone-flagged entrance hall into the open. There was no sign of Joan, and he guessed that if he asked Stephens which way Joan had gone, the man would either plead ignorance or lie. Hamon had no illusions as to his popularity.

If the girl was invisible to him, she saw him plainly enough from No Man’s Hill, a black against the green of the lawn. She sat astride the old hunter she rode, looking thoughtfully toward the big, rambling house, her young face troubled, the clear grey of her eyes clouded with doubt. A slim, gracious figure, almost boyish in its outlines, she watched the black speck as it moved back to the house, and for a second a faint smile trembled at the corners of the red lips.

“Up, Toby!” She jerked the rein, disturbing the grazing horse, and set his head to the top of the hill. No Man’s Hill had been disputed territory for centuries, and its right to be included within the boundaries of the adjoining estates had impoverished at least three generations of two families. The Creiths had fought their claim in the courts since 1735. The Talmers had indulged in litigation for fifty years, and in the end had died embittered and ruined. The owners of Wold House had gone the same way. Would the new owner of the Wold continue the bad work, Joan wondered? Somehow she thought he was too sensible. He had been two years in occupation and had not issued a writ, though his title deeds undoubtedly gave him that disastrous right.

Presently she stopped and, dismounting and letting the horse graze at will, she climbed the last sheer slope and came to the top. Mechanically she looked at the watch on her wrist. It was exactly eight o’clock. And then her eyes sought the bridle path that skirted the foot of the hill.

She need not have examined her watch. The man she was overlooking had ridden out of the copse at exactly this moment, day after day, month after month. A tall man who sat his horse easily and smoked a pipe as he rode.

She took the glasses from the case she carried and focussed them. The scrutiny was inexcusable; Joan admitted the fault without hesitation. It was he; the lean, aesthetic face, the grey patch at the temples, the open-throated rough shirt. She could have drawn him, and had.

“Joan Carston, you are an unmaidenly and shameless woman,” she said sternly. “Is this man anything to you? No! Are you enveloping him in a golden cloud of romance? Yes! Isn’t it vulgar curiosity and the desire of youth for mystery that brings you here every morning to spy upon this middle-aged and harmless gentleman? Yes! And aren’t you ashamed? No!”

The unconscious object of her interrogations was parallel with her now. In one hand he carried a thin, pliable riding whip with which he smoothed the horse’s mane absently. Looking neither to left nor right, he passed on, and she watched him with a puzzled frown until he was out of sight.

Mr. James Lexington Morlake was as great a source of puzzlement to the people of the country as to himself. For two years he had been master of Wold House, and nothing was known of him except that he was apparently a rich man. He most certainly had no friends. The Vicar had called upon him soon after his arrival. He had been canvassed on behalf of local charities, and had responded handsomely, but he had declined every social invitation which would bring him into closer touch with his neighbours. He neither visited nor received. Judicious enquiries were set afoot; cook talked to cook, and parlourmaid to parlourmaid, and in the end he stood disappointingly revealed as a man whose life was exemplary, if a little erratic, for nobody could be certain whether he was at home at Wold or in London. Even to his servants he did not disclose his plan for the day or the week. This eccentricity was common property.

Joan Carston mounted her horse and rode down the hill toward the path the man had followed. When she came to the track she looked to her left in time to see the battered sombrero he wore disappearing in the dip that leads to the river.

“I’m a rash and indelicate female, Toby,” she said, addressing the twitching ears of her horse. “I am without reserve or proper pride, but oh! Toby, I’d give two paper pounds sterling–which is all I have in the world–to talk with him and be disillusioned!”

She sent her audience cantering along the road, turning off through the dilapidated gate which led her back to her father’s estate. Where the main road skirted Creith Park was a lime-washed barn-like cottage, and to this she rode. A woman standing in the garden waved her hand as the girl approached. She was of middle age, slim and pretty, and she carried herself with a dignity which almost disguised the poverty of her attire.

“Good morning, Lady Joan. We reached here last night and found everything ready for us. It was lovely of you to take such trouble.”

“What is work?” said Joan swinging herself to the ground. “Especially when somebody else does it? How is the interesting invalid, Mrs. Cornford?”

Mrs. Cornford smiled.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t arrive until to-night. You don’t mind my having a boarder?”

“No,” Joan shook her head. “I wonder you don’t stay here permanently. Father said you might. Who is your boarder?”

Mrs. Cornford hesitated.

“He is a young man I am interested in. I ought to tell you that he is, or was, a dipsomaniac.”

“Good heavens!” said the startled girl.

“I have tried to help him, and I think I have. He is a gentleman–it is rather tragic to see these cases, but at the Mission, where I help when I can spare the time, we see many. You are sure you won’t mind?”

“Not a bit,” laughed Joan, and the woman looked at her admiringly.

“You look pretty in riding things,” nodded Mrs. Cornford approvingly.

“I look pretty in anything,” said Joan calmly. “There is no sense in blinking facts: I am pretty! I can’t help it any more than you can. I’m going to breakfast with you!

“Yes, they are expecting me at Creith,” said Joan, spreading marmalade thickly on her bread. “At least, our visitor expects me. Father expects nothing but a miracle that will bring him a million without any effort on his part. The miracle has partly materialised.”

Mrs. Cornford’s eyes spoke her surprise.

“No, we’re not rich,” said Joan, answering the unspoken question; “we are of the impoverished nobility. If I were a man I should go to America and marry somebody very wealthy and live a cat and dog life until I was well and truly divorced. As I am a girl, I must marry a home-bred millionaire. Which I shall not do.”

“But surely….” began Mrs. Cornford.

“The house, the estate, our London house, are, or were until a week ago, mortgaged. We are the poorest people in the county.”

Joan’s cool confession took the other’s breath away.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “It is rather terrible for you.”

“It isn’t a bit,” said Joan. “Besides, everybody here is at poverty’s door. Everybody except the mysterious Mr. Morlake, who is popularly credited with being a millionaire. But that is only because he doesn’t discuss his mortgages. Everybody else does. We sit round one another’s tables and talk foreclosures and interests and the price of corn and cattle disease, but mostly we talk about the loss the country will sustain when the improvident nobility are replaced by the thrifty democracy.”

Mrs. Cornford was silent, her grave eyes searching the girl’s face. Joan had known her a year. It was an advertisement which Mrs. Cornford had inserted in a London newspaper asking for needlework that had brought Joan to the dingy little suburban street where the woman earned sufficient to keep herself and her daughter by her quick and clever fingers.

“It is not easy to be poor,” she said quietly, and Joan looked up.

“You’ve been rich,” she said, nodding her head sagely. “I knew that. One of these days I’m going to ask you to tell me the grisly story–no, I won’t! Yes, it’s horrible to be poor, but more horrible to be rich–on terms. Do you know Mr. Morlake?”

The elder woman smiled.

“He is a local celebrity, isn’t he? I should hardly know him, but he seems to exercise the imagination of the people hereabouts. The girl from the village whom you so kindly sent here to tidy the cottage told me about him. Is he a friend of yours?”

“He is a friend of nobody’s,” said Joan. “In fact, he is so unfriendly that he must be rich. I used to think that he was going to be my prince charming,” she sighed dolefully.

“I wonder if you are really sad?” smiled the woman. “I wonder.”

Joan’s face was inscrutable.

“You wouldn’t imagine that I had a grisly past too, would you?” she asked. “Remember that I am quite old–nearly twenty-three.”

“I shouldn’t imagine so,” said Mrs. Cornford, amusement in her fine eyes.

“Or a terrible secret?”

“No, I shouldn’t think that either.” Mrs. Cornford shook her head.

Joan sighed again.

“I’ll go back to my burden,” she said.

The “burden” was walking in the long chestnut avenue when she overtook him.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Lady Joan,” he said with ill-assumed heartiness. “I’m starving!”

Joan Carston wished she had waited an hour or two.

III. THE HEAD OF THE CREITHS

Ferdinand Carston, ninth Earl of Creith, was a thin, querulous man, whose dominant desire was a negative one. He did not want to be bothered. He had spent his life avoiding trouble, and his deviations had led him into strange places. His “paper” was held by half a score of moneylenders, his mortgages were on the books of as many banks. He did not wish to be bothered by farm bailiffs and factors, or by tenant farmers. He could not be worried with the choice of his agents, and most of them did not bother to render him accurate accounts. From time to time he attempted to recover his heavy liabilities by daring speculations, and as he could not be troubled with the business of investigating their soundness, he usually returned to the well-worn path that led to the little moneylenders’ offices that infest Sackville and Jermyn streets.

And then there came into his orbit a most obliging financier who handsomely accepted the task of settling with troublesome banks and clamouring Shylocks. Lord Creith was grateful. Deuced grateful. He sold the reversionary rights in the Creith estates, and not only discharged at one sweep all his liabilities, but touched real money.

He was in his library, examining with interest Tattersall’s Sale Catalogue, when his guest came in unannounced.

“Hullo, Hamon!” he said without any great geniality. “Had breakfast?”

“Joan had breakfast out,” said Hamon curtly.

“Did she?” asked Creith, looking at him over his glasses and at a loss to continue, yet feeling that something was expected of him he added: “Did she?”

Hamon pulled up a chair and seated himself at the opposite side of the writing-table.

“Have you ever thought what will happen when you die?” he asked.

Lord Creith blinked quickly.

“Never thought of it, Hamon, never thought of it. I’ve been a good churchman, though the tithes are an infernal nuisance–I suppose I’ll go up to heaven with the best of ‘em.”

“I’m not thinking about your spiritual future,” said Mr. Hamon. “I’m thinking about Creith.”

“The title goes to Joan–it descends that way in our family,” said his lordship, biting the end of a pen-holder. “But why bother me about these details, my dear fellow? If Joan wants to preserve the estate she’ll marry you, and I’ve no objection. We’ve had some devilish queer people in our family before, and I daresay we shall go on having devilish queer people. My great great grandmother had a wooden leg.”

Mr. Ralph Hamon overlooked the uncomplimentary reference, and was not prepared to encourage a discussion on the deficiencies of Lord Creith’s ancestors.

“If Joan doesn’t want to marry me?” he said. “I suppose you’ve some influence?”

Lord Creith took off his glasses deliberately.

“With Joan? Bless your life, she doesn’t take the slightest notice of anything I say! And very properly. I’m about the worst adviser that anybody could have. She’ll do what she likes. Her dear and blessed mother was the same. Don’t bother me now, my dear good fellow.”

“But suppose Joan refuses me point blank?” persisted the other.

Lord Creith’s smile was broad and bland.

“Then, my dear boy, you’re finished!”

Hamon bit off the end of a cigar deliberately, as Lord Creith looked significantly at the door.

“You must have some influence, Creith,” he said doggedly. “Talk to her.”

The older man leaned back in his chair, obviously bored, as obviously resigned to boredom.

“I’ll speak to her,” he said. “Oh, by the way, that farm you wanted, you can’t have. I find that the mortgage was foreclosed by the Midland Bank a month ago, and the property has been sold to that queer fish, James Lexington Morlake. Though why the dickens he wants it–”

“Morlake!”

Creith looked up in surprise. The sallow face of Mr. Ralph Hamon was puckered, his slit of a mouth was parted in amazement and anger.

“Morlake–no–James Lexington Morlake? Does he live near here? Is he the man you were talking about the other day–you said he was an American….”

He fired the questions in rapid succession, and Lord Creith closed his eyes wearily.

“I don’t know who he is … though I mentioned his name–what is the matter with you, Hamon?”

“Nothing,” said the other harshly, “only–” He turned the subject. “Will you speak to Joan?” he asked curtly, and stalked out of the library.

Joan was in her room when the maid came for her, and short as was the space of time elapsing between the summons and the answering, Lord Creith was again absorbed in his catalogue.

“Oh, Joan … yes, I wanted to see you about something. Yes, yes, I remember. Be as civil as you can to Hamon, my dear.”

“Has he been complaining?”

“Good Lord, no!” said Lord Creith. “Only he has an idea that he would like to marry you. I don’t know how you feel about it?”

“Do you wish me to tell you?” she asked, and his lordship shook his head vigorously.

“I don’t think so–not if it’s going to bother me. Of course, you know I’ve sold everything … house, land and the place in London?”

“To Mr. Hamon?”

He nodded.

“Everything,” he said. “If you don’t marry him, there will only be the bit of money I have when I–er–step off, if you forgive the vulgarity.”

“I gathered that,” she said.

“Of course, your grandmother’s money comes to you when you are twenty-four. Happily, I haven’t been able to touch that, though I tried very hard–very hard! But those lawyers are cute fellows, deuced cute! Now what about marrying this fellow Hamon?”

She smiled.

“I thought you wouldn’t,” said her father with satisfaction. “That is all I wanted you for … oh, yes, do you know this man Morlake?”

If he had been looking at her he would have been startled by the pink flush that came to her face. But his eyes were already on the catalogue.

“Why?”

“I mentioned his name to Hamon–never saw a man get more annoyed. What is Morlake?”

“A man,” she said laconically.

“How interesting!” said his lordship, and returned to his sale list.

IV. A CALLER AT WOLD HOUSE

James Morlake sat in the shade of the big cedar that grew half way between his house and the river. His lame fox-terrier sprawled at his feet, and a newspaper lay open on his knees. He was not reading; his eyes were fixed on the glassy surface of the stream. A splash, a momentary vision of wet silver as a trout leapt at an incautious fly, brought his head round, and then he saw the man that stood surveying him from the drive.

One glance he gave, and then returned to the placid contemplation of the little river.

Hamon walked slowly forward, his hands thrust into his pockets.

“Well,” he said, “it is a long time since I saw you. I didn’t know that you were living around here.”

Jim Morlake raised his eyes and yawned.

“I should have sent you a card,” he said lazily. “One ought to have ‘at home’ days. If I had known you were coming this morning, I’d have hired the village band and put up a few flags.”

Mr. Hamon pulled forward a chair and sat down squarely before the other, and when he spoke, it was with the greatest deliberation.

“I’ll buy this house from you–Morlake–”

“Mister Morlake,” murmured the other. “Let us remember that we are gentlemen.”

“I’ll buy this house from you and you can go abroad. I’ll forgive your threats and your mad fool talk about … well, you know–but you will get out of the country in a week.”

Morlake laughed softly, and Hamon, who had never seen him laugh, was astounded at the transformation that laughter brought to the sombre face.

“You are a most amusing person,” said the tall man. “You drop from the clouds, or spout out from the eternal fires after an absence of years, and immediately start in to rearrange my life! You’re getting fat, Hamon, and those bags under your eyes aren’t pretty. You ought to see a doctor.”

Hamon leant forward.

“Suppose I tell your neighbours who you are!” he asked slowly. “Suppose I go to the police and tell them that Mister Morlake”–he laid a sneering emphasis on the title–“is a cheap Yankee crook!”

“Not cheap,” murmured Morlake, his amused eyes watching the other.

“Suppose I tell them that I once caught you red-handed robbing the Prescott Bank, and that you blackmailed me into letting you go!”

Morlake’s eyes never left the man’s face.

“There has been a series of burglaries committed in London,” Hamon went on. “They’ve been worked by a man called The Black–ever heard of him?”

Morlake smiled.

“I never read the newspapers,” he drawled. “There is so much in them that is not fit for a country gentleman to read.”

“A country gentleman!”

It was Mr. Hamon’s turn to be amused. Putting his hand in his pocket, he withdrew a note-case, and, opening its worn flap, he pulled out a tight wad of banknotes.

“That is for your travelling expenses,” he said, as Morlake took the money from his hand. “As for your little house and estate, I’ll make you an offer to-morrow. Your price–”

“Is a hundred thousand,” said Morlake. “I’d take this paltry sum on account if it wasn’t for the fact that you’ve got the number of every note in your pocket-book and a busy detective waiting at the gate to pull me as soon as I pocketed the swag! A hundred thousand is my price, Hamon. Pay me that, in the way I want it paid, and I’ll leave you alone. One hundred thousand sterling is the price you pay for a month of quietness!”

He threw the money on to the grass.

“A month–what do you mean, a month?”

Again the big man raised his quiet eyes.

“I mean the month that elapses in this country between trial and execution,” he said.

V. THE MONKEY AND THE GOURD

Ralph Hamon leapt to his feet as if he had been shot. His face was livid, his thick lips bloodless.

“You’re a liar … a damned Yankee crook! Hang me? I’ll settle with you, Morlake! I know enough about you….”

Morlake raised a hand in mock alarm.

“Don’t frighten me! My nerves are not what they were. And be a sensible man. Tell me all about yourself. I hear that you cleared half a million in Varoni Diamonds. Honestly too; which is queer. If you had only waited, Hamon! You wouldn’t be going about in fear of your life. Do you know how the natives catch monkeys? They put a plum or a date at the bottom of a narrow-necked gourd. And the monkey puts in his hand and grips the date but can’t get his clenched first through the narrow neck. He is too greedy to loose hold of the date and hasn’t the strength to smash the gourd. And so he’s caught. You’re a monkey man, Hamon!”

Hamon had mastered his rage, but his face was deadly white.

“I don’t understand you,” he said. “You’re one of these clever Alecs who like to hear themselves talk. I’ve warned you. Maybe you’re the gourd that is going to get smashed.”

“That occurred to me,” nodded the other, “but I shall be broken in a good cause. In the meantime, I shall stay at Wold House, rejoicing in my mystery and in the interest I inspire in the country bosom.”

“I’ll settle that mystery!” roared Hamon. He paused at the edge of the gravel path and raised an admonitory finger. “I give you seven days to clear,” he said.

“Shut the gate as you go out,” said James Morlake, not troubling to turn his head.

Hamon sprang into the car that he had left on the road and drove homeward in a savage mood; but the shocks of the day were not at an end.

He had to follow the main road before he reached the uneven lane that bordered the Creith estate. It was the Hamon estate now, he reflected with satisfaction. He was master of these broad acres and sleepy farms that nestled in the folds of the downs. But his mastership was incomplete unless there went with his holding the slim, straight girl whose antagonism he sensed, whose unspoken contempt cut like the lash of a whip.

To tame her, humble her, punish her for her insolence, would be a sport more satisfying than any he had followed in his chequered life. As for the man called James Morlake … he winced as he thought of that almost exact counterpart to Joan Carston.

He had turned the bonnet of his car into the lane when his eyes rested upon the whitewashed cottage behind the wooden fence, and he stopped the machine. He remembered that a friend of Joan’s had been installed here–a woman.

Ralph Hamon was an opportunist. A friend of Joan’s might become a friend of his, and if, as he guessed, she was not too well blessed with the goods of this world, he might find a subterranean method of sapping the girl’s prejudice against him.

He got down from the machine and walked back to the road and through the gateway. A red brick path flanked by tall dahlias led to the cottage door. He glanced left and right. The occupant was not in the garden, and he knocked. Almost immediately the door opened and the tall figure of a woman confronted him.

Their eyes met, and neither spoke. He was staring at her as if she were a visitant from another world, and she met his gaze unflinchingly.

He tried to speak, but nothing came from his throat but a slurred growl; and then, turning violently, he almost ran down the path; the perspiration rolling down his face, his mouth dry with fear; for Elsa Cornford had that half of his secret which the master of Wold House did not guess.

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

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