Avenger — Chapters 17 & 18
A CONFESSION OF LOVE
The Colonel turned bodily round in his chair.
The couple to whom Wrayson had drawn his attention were certainly incongruous enough to attract notice anywhere.
The man was lank, elderly, and of severe appearance.
He was bald, he had slight side-whiskers, he wore spectacles, and his face was devoid of expression.
He was dressed in plain dinner clothes of old-fashioned cut.
The tails of his coat were much too short, his collar belonged to a departed generation, and his tie was ready made.
In a small Scotch town he might have passed muster readily enough as the clergyman or lawyer of the place.
As a diner at Luigi's, ushered up the room to the soft strains of "La Mattchiche," and followed by such a companion, he was almost ridiculously out of place.
If anything, she was the more noticeable of the two to the casual observer.
Her hair was dazzlingly yellow, and arranged with all the stiffness of the coiffeur's art.
She wore a dress of black sequins, cut perilously low, and shorn a little by wear of its pristine splendour.
Her complexion was as artificial as her high-pitched voice; her very presence seemed to exude perfumes of the patchouli type.
She was the sort of person concerning whom the veriest novice in such matters could have made no mistake.
Yet her companion seemed wholly unembarrassed.
He handed her the menu and looked calmly around the room.
"Who are those people?"
the Colonel asked.
"Rather a queer combination, aren't they?"
"The man is Bentham, the lawyer," Wrayson answered.
His eyes were fixed upon the lady, who seemed not at all indisposed to become the object of any stray attention.
"That Bentham!"
the Colonel repeated, under his breath.
"But what on earth--where the mischief could he pick up a companion like that?"
Wrayson scarcely heard him.
He had withdrawn his eyes from the lady with an effort.
"I have seen that woman somewhere," he said thoughtfully--"somewhere where she seemed quite as much out of place as she does here.
Lately, too."
"H'm!"
the Colonel remarked, leaning back in his chair to allow the waiter to serve him.
"She's not the sort of person you'd be likely to forget either, is she?"
"And, by Heavens, I haven't!"
Wrayson declared, suddenly laying down his knife and fork.
"I remember her now.
It was at the inquest--Barnes' inquest.
She was one of the two women at whose flat he called on his way home.
What on earth is Bentham doing with her?"
"You think," the Colonel remarked quietly, "that there is some connection--" "Of course there is," Wrayson interrupted.
"Does that old fossil look like the sort to take such a creature about for nothing?
Colonel, he doesn't know himself--where those securities are!
He's brought that woman here to pump her!"
The Colonel passed his hand across his forehead.
"I am getting a little confused," he murmured.
"And I," Wrayson declared, with barely suppressed excitement, "am beginning to see at least the shadow of daylight.
If only you had some influence with your daughter, Colonel!"
The Colonel looked at him steadfastly.
Wrayson wondered whether it was the light, or whether indeed his friend had aged so much during the last few months.
"I have no influence over my daughter, Wrayson," he said.
"I thought that I had already explained that.
And, Herbert," he added, leaning over the table, "why don't you let this matter alone?
It doesn't concern you.
You are more likely to do harm than good by meddling with it.
There may be interests involved greater than you know of; you may find understanding a good deal more dangerous than ignorance.
It isn't your affair, anyhow.
Take my advice!
Let it alone!"
"I wish I could," Wrayson answered, with a little sigh.
"Frankly, I would if I could, but it fascinates me."
"All that I have heard of it," the Colonel remarked wearily, "sounds sordid enough."
Wrayson nodded.
"I think," he said, "that it is the sense of personal contact in a case like this which stirs the blood.
I have memories about that night, Colonel, which I couldn't describe to you--or any one.
And now this young brother coming on the scene seems to bring the dead man to life again.
He's one of the worst type of young bounders I ever came into contact with.
A creature without sentiment or feeling of any sort--nothing but an almost ravenous cupidity.
He's wearing his brother's clothes now--thinks nothing of it!
He hasn't a single regret.
I haven't heard a single decent word pass his lips.
But he wants the money.
Nothing else!
The money!"
"Do you believe," the Colonel asked, "that he will get it?"
"Who can tell?"
Wrayson answered.
"That Morris Barnes was in possession of valuables of some sort, everything goes to prove.
Just think of the number of people who have shown their interest in him.
There is Bentham and his mysterious client, the Baroness de Sturm and your daughter, and--the person who murdered him.
Apparently, even though he lost his life, Barnes was too clever for them, for his precious belongings must still be undiscovered."
The Colonel finished his wine and leaned back in his chair.
"I am tired of this subject," he said.
"I should like to get back to the club."
Wrayson called for the bill a little unwillingly.
He was, in a sense, disappointed at the Colonel's attitude.
"Very well," he said, "we will bury it.
But before we do so, there is one thing I have had it in my mind to say--for some time.
I want to say it now.
It is about your daughter, Colonel!"
The Colonel looked at him curiously.
"My daughter?"
he repeated, under his breath.
Wrayson leaned a little forward.
Something new had come into his face.
This was the first time he had suffered such words to pass his lips--almost the first time he had suffered such thoughts to form themselves in his mind.
"I never looked upon myself," he said quietly, "as a particularly impulsive person.
Yet it was an impulse which prompted me to conceal the truth as to her presence in the flat buildings that night.
It was a serious thing to do, and somehow I fancy that the end is not yet."
"Why did you do it?"
the Colonel asked.
"You did not know who she was.
It could not have been that."
"Why did I do it?"
Wrayson repeated.
"I can't tell you.
I only know that I should do it again and again if the need came.
If I told you exactly how I felt, it would sound like rot.
But I'm going to ask you that question."
"Well?"
The Colonel's grey eyebrows were drawn together.
His eyes were keen and bright.
So he might have looked in time of stress; but he was not in the least like the genial idol of the Sheridan billiard-room.
"If I came to you to-morrow," Wrayson said, "and told you that I had met at last the woman whom I wished to make my wife, and that woman was your daughter, what should you say?"
"I should be glad," the Colonel answered simply.
"You and she are, for some unhappy reason, not on speaking terms.
That--" "Good God!"
the Colonel interrupted, "whom do you mean?
Whom are you talking about?"
"About your daughter--whom I shielded--the companion of the Baroness de Sturm.
Your daughter Louise."
The Colonel raised his trembling fingers to his forehead.
His voice quivered ominously.
"Of course!
Of course!
God help me, I thought you meant Edith!
I never thought of Louise.
And Edith has spoken of you lately."
"I found your younger daughter charming," Wrayson said seriously, "but it was of your daughter Louise I was speaking.
I thought that you would understand that."
"My daughter--whom you found--in Morris Barnes' flat--that night?"
"Exactly," Wrayson answered, "and my question is this.
I cannot ask you why you and she parted, but at least you can tell me if you know of any reason why I should not ask her to be my wife."
The Colonel was silent.
"No!"
he said at last, "there is no reason.
But she would not consent.
I
am sure of that."
"We will let it go at that," Wrayson answered.
"Come!"
He had chosen his moment for rising so as to pass down the room almost at the same time as Mr. Bentham and his strange companion.
Prolific of smiles and somewhat elephantine graces, the lady's darkened eyes met Wrayson's boldly, and finding there some encouragement, she even favoured him with a backward glance.
In the vestibule he slipped a half-crown into the attendant's hand.
"See if you can hear the address that lady gives her cabman," he whispered.
The boy nodded, and hurried out after them.
Wrayson kept the Colonel back under the pretence of lighting a fresh cigar.
When at last they strolled forward, they met the boy returning.
He touched his hat to Wrayson.
"Alhambra, sir!"
he said, quietly.
"Gone off alone, sir, in a hansom.
Gentleman walked."
The Colonel kept silence until they were in the street.
"Coming to the club?"
he asked, a little abruptly.
"No!"
Wrayson answered.
"You are going after that woman?"
the Colonel exclaimed.
"I am going to the Alhambra," Wrayson answered.
"I can't help it.
It sounds foolish, I suppose, but this affair fascinates me.
It works on my nerves somehow.
I must go."
The Colonel turned on his heel.
Without another word, he crossed the Strand, leaving Wrayson standing upon the pavement.
Wrayson, with a little sigh, turned westwards.
CHAPTER XVIII AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE
Wrayson easily discovered the object of his search.
She was seated upon a lounge in the promenade, her ample charms lavishly displayed, and her blackened eyes mutely questioning the passers-by.
She welcomed Wrayson with a smile which she meant to be inviting, albeit she was a little suspicious.
Men of Wrayson's stamp and appearance were not often such easy victims.
"Saw you at Luigi's, didn't I?"
he asked, hat in hand.
She nodded, and made room for him to sit down by her side.
"Did you see the old stick I was with?"
she asked.
"I don't know why I was fool enough to go out with him.
Trying to pump me about poor old Barney, too, all the time.
Just as though I couldn't see through him."
"Old Barney!"
Wrayson repeated, a little perplexed.
She laughed coarsely.
"Oh!
come, that won't do!"
she declared.
"I'm almost sure you're on the same lay yourself.
Didn't I see you at the inquest?
--Morris Barnes' inquest, of course?
You know whom I mean right enough."
"I know whom you mean now," Wrayson admitted.
"Yes!
I was there.
Queer affair, wasn't it?"
The lady nodded.
"I should like a liqueur," she remarked, with apparent irrelevance.
"Benedictine!"
They were seated in front of a small table, and were at times the object of expectant contemplation on the part of a magnificent individual in livery and knee-breeches.
Wrayson summoned him and ordered two Benedictines.
"Now I don't mind telling you," the lady continued, leaning over towards him confidentially, "that I'm dead off that old man who came prying round and took me out to dinner, to pump me about poor Barney!
He didn't get much out of me.
For one thing, I don't know much.
But the little I do know I'd sooner tell you than him."
"You're very kind," Wrayson murmured.
"He used to come to these places a good deal, didn't he?"
She nodded assent.
"He was always either here or at the Empire.
He wasn't a bad sort, Barney, although he was just like all the rest of them, close with his money when he was sober, and chucking it about when he'd had a drop too much.
What did you want to know about him in particular?"
"Well, for one thing," Wrayson answered, "where he got his money from."
She shook her head.
"He was always very close about that," she said.
"The only story I ever heard him tell was that he'd made it mining in South Africa."
"You have really heard him say that?"
Wrayson asked.
"Half a dozen times," she declared.
"That proves, at any rate," he remarked thoughtfully, "that there was some mystery about his income, because I happen to know that he came back from South Africa a pauper."
"Very likely," she remarked.
"Barney was always the sort who would rather tell a lie than the truth."
"Did he say anything to you that night about being in any kind of danger?"
he asked.
She shook her head.
"No!
I don't think so.
I didn't take particular notice of what he said, because he was a bit squiffy.
I believe he mentioned some thing about a business appointment that night, but I really didn't take much notice."
"You didn't tell them anything about that at the inquest," Wrayson remarked.
"I know I didn't," she admitted.
"You see, I was so knocked over, and I really didn't remember anything clearly, that I thought it was best to say nothing at all.
They'd only have been trying to ferret things out of me that I couldn't have told them."
"I think that you were very wise," Wrayson said.
"You don't happen to remember anything else that he said, I suppose?"
"No!
except that he seemed a little depressed.
But there's something else about Barney that I always suspected, that I've never heard mentioned yet.
Mind you, it may be true or it may not, but I always suspected it."
"What was that?"
Wrayson demanded.
"I believe that he was married," she declared impressively.
"Married!"
Wrayson looked incredulous.
It certainly did not seem probable.
"Where is his wife then?"
he asked.
"Why hasn't she turned up to claim his effects?
Besides, he lived alone.
He was my neighbour, you know.
His brother has taken possession of his flat."
The lady rather enjoyed the impression she had made.
She was not averse, either, to being seen in so prominent a place in confidential talk with a man of Wrayson's appearance.
It might not be directly remunerative, but it was likely to do her good.
"He showed me a photograph once," she continued.
"A baby-faced chit of a girl it was, but he was evidently very proud of it.
A little girl of his down in the country, he told me.
Then, do you know this?
He was never in London for Sunday.
Every week-end he went off somewhere; and I never heard of any one who ever saw him or knew where he went to."
"This is very interesting," Wrayson admitted; "but if he was married, surely his wife would have turned up by now!"
"Why should she?"
the lady answered.
"Don't you see that she very likely has what all you gentlemen seem to be so anxious about--his income?"
"By Jove!"
Wrayson exclaimed softly.
"Of course, if there was anything mysterious about the source of it, all the more reason for her to keep dark."
"Well, that's what I've had in my mind," she declared, summoning the waiter.
"I'll take another liqueur, if you don't mind."
Wrayson nodded.
His thoughts were travelling fast.
"Did you tell Mr. Bentham this?"
he asked.
"Not I," she answered.
"The old fool got about as much out of me as he deserved--and that's nothing."
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged," Wrayson answered, drawing out his pocketbook.
"I wonder if I might be allowed--?"
He glanced at her inquiringly.
She nodded.
"I'm not proud," she declared.
* * * * * "As an amateur detective," Wrayson remarked to himself, as he strolled homewards, "I am beginning rather to fancy myself.
And yet--" His thoughts had stolen away.
He forgot Morris Barnes and the sordid mystery of which he was the centre.
He remembered only the compelling cause which was driving him towards the solution of it.
The night was warm, and he walked slowly, his hands behind him, and ever before his eyes the shadowy image of the girl who had brought so many strange sensations into his somewhat uneventful life.
Would he ever see her, he wondered, without the light of trouble in her eyes, with colour in her cheeks, and joy in her tone?
He thought of her violet-rimmed eyes, her hesitating manner, her air always as of one who walked hand in hand with fear.
She was not meant for these things!
Her lips and eyes were made for laughter; she was, after all, only a girl.
If he could but lift the cloud!
And then he looked upwards and saw her--leaning from the little iron balcony, and looking out into the cool night.
He half stopped.
She did not move.
It was too dark to see her features, but as he looked upwards a strange idea came to him.
Was it a gesture or some unspoken summons which travelled down to him through the semi-darkness?
He only knew, as he turned and entered the flat, that a new chapter of his life was opening itself out before him.
CHAPTER XIX
