 
Transcriber's Note: Transcribed from page scans provided by the the Hathi Trust Org. (The Ohio State University)
frontispiece
THE SPIDER.
BYFERGUS HUME,AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE SOLITARY FARM," ETC.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAPTER | |
| I. | A POSSIBLE PARTNERSHIP |
| II. | A CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATION |
| III. | HOW THE TRAP WAS SET |
| IV. | WHO WAS CAUGHT IN THE TRAP |
| V. | AFTER THE TRAGEDY |
| VI. | WHAT MR. IRELAND KNEW |
| VII. | AFTER THE TRAGEDY |
| VIII. | THE GRIEF OF IDA |
| IX. | WITCHCRAFT |
| X. | WITCHCRAFT |
| XI. | THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYSTACK |
| XII. | A TEMPTING OFFER |
| XIII. | THE BAZAAR |
| XIV. | RUN TO EARTH |
| XV. | FACE TO FACE |
| XVI. | THE SEARCH |
| XVII. | IN THE TRAIN |
| XVIII. | AT BOWDERSTYKE |
| XIX. | A BOLD OFFER |
| XX. | GERBY HALL |
| XXI. | JUSTICE |
| XXII. | THE END OF IT ALL |
THE SPIDER.
CHAPTER I.
A POSSIBLE PARTNERSHIP.
The exterior of The Athenian Club, Pall Mall, represents an ordinary twentieth century mansion, which it is; but within, the name is justified by a GrÆco-Roman architecture of vast spaces, marble floors, painted ceilings, and pillared walls, adapted, more or less successfully, to the chilly British climate. The various rooms are called by Latin names, and the use of these is rigidly enforced. Standing outside the mansion, you know that you are in London; enter, and you behold Athens--say, the abode of Alcibiades; listen, and scraps of speech suggest Imperial Rome. Thus, the tastes of all the members, whether old and pedantic, or young and frivolous, are consulted and gratified. Modern slang, as well as the stately tongue of Virgil, is heard in The Athenian, for the club, like St. Paul, is all things to all men. For that reason it is a commercial success.
Strangers--they come eagerly with members to behold rumoured glories--enter the club-house, through imitation bronze gates, into the vestibulum, and pass through an inner door into the atrium. This means that they leave the entrance room for the general conversation apartment. To the right of this, looking from the doorway, is the tablinum, which answers--perhaps not very correctly as regards the name--the purposes of a library; to the left a lordly portal gives admittance into the triclinium, that is, to the dining-room. At the end of the atrium, which is the neutral ground of the club, where members and strangers meet, swing-doors shut in the pinacotheca. Properly this should be a picture-gallery, but, in deference to modern requirements, it is used as a smoking-room. These three rooms, spacious, ornate, and lofty, open under a colonnade, or peristyle, on to a glass-roofed winter garden, which runs like a narrow passage round the three sides of the building. The viridarium, as the members call this cultivated strip of land, extends only twenty feet from the marble pavement of the peristyle, and is bounded by the side-walls and rear-walls of adjacent houses. It is filled with palms and tropical plants, with foreign and native flowers, and, owing to a skilful concealment of its limitations by the use of enormous mirrors, festooned with creepers and ivy, it really resembles vast pleasure-gardens extending to great distances. The outlook from tablinum, pinacotheca, and triclinium is a triumph of perspective.
Below the state apartments on the ground floor are the kitchens, the domestic offices, and the servants' rooms; above them, the cubicles are to be found, where members, both resident or non-resident, sleep when disposed on beds more comfortable than classical. Finally, on the top floor, and reached by a lift, are billiard-rooms, card-rooms, and a small gymnasium for those who require exercise. The whole scheme is modelled on a larger scale from the House of Glaucus, as described by Bulwer Lytton in "The Last Days of Pompeii." A perusal of this famous story suggested the novelty to an enterprising builder, and the Athenian Club is the successful result.
The members of such a club should have been classical scholars, but these were in the minority. The greater portion of those who patronised this latest London freak were extremely up-to-date, and defended their insistent modernity amidst ancient artificial environment by Acts xvii. 21: "For the Athenians and strangers which were there spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell, or to hear some new thing!" And certainly they acted well up to the text, for all the scandal and novelty of the metropolis seemed to flow from this pseudo-classical source. Plays were discussed in manuscript, novels on the eve of publication; inventors came here to suggest plans for airships, or to explain how the earth could signal to Mars. Some members had brand new ideas for the improvement of motor mechanism, others desired to evolve colour from sound, detailing with many words how music could be made visible. As to politics, the Athenians knew everything which was going on behind the scenes, and could foretell equally truthfully a war, a change of Government, the abdication of a monarch, or the revolt of an oppressed people. If any traveller arrived from the Land-at-the-Back-of-Beyond with an account of a newly-discovered island, or an entirely new animal, he was sure to be a member of the club. Thus, although the interior of the Pall Mall mansion suggested Greece and Rome, Nero and Pericles, the appointments for comfort, for the quick dispatch of business or pleasure, and the ideas, conversation, and dress of the members, were, if anything, six months ahead of the present year of grace. The Athenian Club was really a mixture or blending of two far-apart epochs, the very ancient and the very modern; but the dark ages were left out, as the members had no use for mediÆval ignorance.
Over the mosaic dog with his warning lettering, "Cave Canem," strolled, one warm evening in June, a young man of twenty-four, whose physical appearance was more in keeping with the classical surroundings than were his faultlessly fitting dress-clothes. His oval, clean-shaven face was that of a pure-blooded Hellene, his curly golden hair and large blue eyes like the sky of Italy at noon, suggested the Sun-god, and his figure, limber, active, and slender, resembled the Hermes of the Palestra. He was almost aggressively handsome, and apparently knew that he was, for he swaggered in with a haughty lord-of-the-world air, entirely confident of himself and of his capabilities. His exuberant vitality was as pronounced as were his good looks, and there was a finish about his toilette which hinted at a determination to make the most of his appearance. He assuredly succeeded in accentuating what Nature had done for him, since even the attendant, who approached to remove the young man's light overcoat, appeared to be struck by this splendid vision of perfect health, perfect beauty, and perfect lordship of existence. All the fairies must have come to the cradle of this fortunate young gentleman with profuse gifts. He seemed to be the embodiment of joyous life.
"Is Mr. Arthur Vernon here?" he asked, settling his waistcoat, touching the flower in his button-hole, and pulling a handkerchief out of his left sleeve.
"In the pinacotheca, sir," was the reply, for all the attendants were carefully instructed in correct pronunciation. "Shall I tell him you are here, Mr. Maunders?"
The gentleman thus named yawned lazily. "Thanks, I shall see him myself;" and with a nod to the man, he walked lightly through the atrium, looking like one of Flaxman's creations, only he was more clothed.
Throwing keen glances right and left to see who was present and who was not, Mr. Maunders entered the pinacotheca. This was an oblong apartment with marble walls on three sides and a lordly range of pillars on the fourth, which was entirely open to the gardens. Beyond could be seen the luxuriant vegetation of the undergrowth, whence sprang tall palms, duplicated in the background of mirrors. The mosaic pavement of the smoking-room was strewn with Persian praying-mats, whose vivid colouring matched the pictured floor. There were deep armchairs and softly-cushioned sofas, all upholstered in dark red leather, which contrasted pleasantly with the snowy walls. Many small tables of white metal and classical shapes were dotted here, there, and everywhere. As it was mid-June and extremely close, the fireplace--looking somewhat incongruous in such a place--was filled with ferns and white flowers, in red pots of earthenware, thus repeating the general scheme of colour. Red and white, snow and fire, with a spread of green in the viridarium--nothing could have been more artistic.
Under the peristyle, and near a fountain whence water sprang from the conch of a Triton to fall into a shallow marble basin with prismatic hues, were several copper-topped tables. Near them, basket chairs draped with brightly-hued rugs, were scattered in picturesque disorder. One of them was occupied by a long, slim man of thirty. With a cigarette between his lips and a cup of coffee at his elbow, he stared straight in front of him, but looked up swiftly when he heard Maunders' springy steps.
"Here you are at last!" he remarked somewhat coolly, and glanced at his watch. "Why didn't you turn up to dinner as arranged? It's close on nine o'clock."
"Couldn't get away from my aunt," replied Maunders, slipping leisurely into an adjacent chair. "She seemed to have the blues about something, and wouldn't let me go. Never was there so affectionate an aunt as Mrs. Bedge, and never one so tryingly attentive."
"Considering that she has brought you up in the past, supplies you with money at present, and intends to make you her heir in the future, you might talk more kindly of her."
Maunders shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, the Eton-Oxford education was all right; she did well by me there. But I don't get much money from her now, and judging from that, I may be heir to very little."
"You ought to be glad that you are an heir to anything," said Vernon frowning, for his friend's light tones jarred.
"Why?" asked the other. "My parents are dead long since. Aunt Emily is my only relative, and has neither chick nor child. If she didn't intend to leave me her money she should not have brought me up to luxury and idleness."
"It would certainly be better if she had made you work," assented the host contemptuously; "but you were always lazy and extravagant."
"I was born sitting down; I am a lily of the field and a rose of Sharon."
"Likewise an ass."
"You think so?" said Maunders drily. "Well, I hope to change your opinion on that point before we part."
"It will take a deal of changing. But all this talk is beside the purpose of our meeting. You made this appointment with me, and----"
"Didn't keep it to the minute. I'm nearly two hours late. Well, what does it matter?"
"Everything to me. I am a busy man," snapped the other sharply.
"So you say." Maunders looked very directly at his host. "Some fellows don't think so. Your business----"
Vernon interrupted. "I have no business; I am an independent man."
"And yet a busy one," rejoined Maunders softly; "strange."
There was that significance in his tone which made Vernon colour, although he remained motionless. He certainly was about to make a hasty observation, but his guest looked at him so straightly and smilingly, that he bit his lip and refrained from immediate speech. Maunders, still smiling, took a cigarette from a golden case and lighted up. "You might offer me a cup of coffee."
Vernon signalled to a passing attendant. "A cup of coffee for Mr. Maunders."
"With a vanilla bean," directed the other man. "I don't like coffee otherwise. And hurry up, please!" Then, when the servant departed, he turned suavely to his host. "I forget what we were talking about."
"So do I," retorted Vernon coolly.
Maunders, smoking delicately, rested his wrists on the copper edge of the table and looked searchingly into his friend's strong face. And Vernon's face was strong--much stronger than that of his companion. He likewise had blue eyes, but of a deep-sea blue, less shallow and more piercing than those of Maunders. His face was also oval, with finely cut features, but more scored with thought-marks; and his hair was as dark, smooth, and short-cropped as that of the other's was golden, curly, and--odd adjective to use in connection with a man--fluffy. Both were clean-shaven, but Vernon's mouth was firm, while the lips of Maunders were less compressed and betrayed indecision. The former had the more athletic figure, the latter a more graceful one, and although both were well groomed and well dressed, Vernon was less of the dandy in his attention to detail. Poetically speaking, one man was Night and the other Day; but a keen observer would have read that the first used strength of body and brain to achieve his ends, while the last relied more on cunning. And from the looks of the twain, cunning and strength were about to try conclusions. Yet they had been child-friends, school-friends, and--so far as their paths ran parallel--were life-friends, with certain reservations.
"You were always as deep as a well, Arty," said Maunders, finally removing his eyes from the other's face and turning to take his cup of coffee.
"Don't call me Arty!" snapped Vernon irritably.
"You were Arty at Eton, when we were boys, tall and short."
"We are not at Eton now. I always think that there is something weak in a man being called by his Christian name outside his family--much less being ticketed with a confounded diminutive."
"You can call me Conny if you like, as you used to."
"I shan't, or even Constantine. Maunders is good enough for me."
"Oh is he?" The fair man glanced shrewdly over the coffee-cup he was holding to his lips. "You hold to that."
"I hold to the name, not to the individual," said Vernon curtly.
"You don't trust me."
"I don't. I see no reason to trust you."
"Ah, you will when I explain why I asked you to meet me here," said Maunders in his frivolous manner.
"I daresay; go on."
His friend sighed. "What a laconic beast you are, Arty."
"My name is Vernon, if you please."
"Always Vernon?" asked Maunders in silky tones. The other man sat up alertly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I want you to take me into partnership."
"Partnership!" Vernon's face grew an angry red. "What the devil do you know?"
"Softly! softly! I know many things, although there is no need to swear. It's bad form, Vernon, deuced bad form. The fact is," he went on gracefully, "my aunt keeps me short of money, and I want all I can get to enjoy life. I thought as I am pretty good in finding out things about people that you might invite me to become a partner in your detective business."
Vernon cast a hasty glance around. Fortunately, there were no guests under the peristyle, and only two men, out of earshot, in the pinacotheca. "You are talking rubbish," he said roughly, yet apprehensively.
"I don't think so. Your father died three years ago and left you with next to nothing. Having no profession you did not know what to do, and, ashamed to beg, borrow, or steal, you turned your powers of observation to account on the side of the law against the criminal." Maunders took a card from his waistcoat pocket and passed it along. "'Nemo, Private Enquiry Agent, 22, Fenella Street, Covent Garden,' is inscribed on that card. Nemo means Nobody, I believe; yet Nemo, as I know, means Arthur Vernon of The Athenian Club."
The man addressed tore the card to pieces and threw them amongst the flowers. "You talk rubbish," he said again, and still roughly. "How do you connect me with this private enquiry agent?"
"Ah, that's too long a story to tell you just now." Maunders glanced at his watch. "I am due at a ball in an hour, and want the matter settled before I leave here."
"What matter?"
"The partnership matter." There was a pause. "Well?"
"I have nothing to say," said Vernon firmly.
Maunders rose. "In that case I'll cut along and go earlier than I expected to Lady Corsoon's ball."
"Lady Corsoon!" Vernon changed colour and bit his lip.
"Yes. She didn't ask you to her ball, did she? She wouldn't, of course, seeing that you are in love with her daughter Lucy. That young lady is to marry money, and you haven't any but what you make out of your detective business. Perhaps if I tell her that you are doing well as Nemo, she might----"
By this time Vernon was on his feet. "Don't you dare, don't you dare!" he panted hoarsely, and the perspiration beaded his brow.
"Oh!" Maunders raised his eyebrows. "Then it is true, after all."
"Sit down," commanded Vernon savagely, resuming his own seat. "We must talk this matter out, if you please."
"I came here for that purpose. Only don't keep me too late. I am engaged to Lucy for the third waltz, and must not disappoint her."
Vernon winced. "You have no right to call Miss Corsoon by her Christian name."
"Why not? She's not engaged to you. I love her, and, as yet--as yet, mind you, Vernon--I have as good a right as you to cut in."
"I understood that you were as good as engaged to Miss Dimsdale."
"Oh!" Maunders lightly flipped away a cigarette ash. "The shoe's on the other foot there. She loves me, but I don't love her. Still, there's money in the business if Ida becomes Mrs. Maunders. Old Dimsdale's got no end of cash, and Ida inherits everything as his only child. But he wants her to marry Colonel Towton---you know, the chap who did so well in some hill-tribe extermination in India. But Ida loves me, and Towton's got no chance, unless I marry Lucy Corsoon and give him a look in."
"You're a cynical, conceited, feather-headed young ass," said Vernon with cold, self-restrained fury, "and I forbid you to speak of Miss Corsoon in that commercial way, much less call her by her Christian name. She loves me and I love her, and we intend to marry, if----"
"If Lady Corsoon permits the match," finished Maunders, stretching out his long legs. "It's no go, my dear fellow. She doesn't think you rich enough for the girl."
"I never heard that Constantine Maunders was a millionaire," retorted the other man bitterly.
"My face is my fortune, old chap, and there are various ways of getting Lady Corsoon's consent."
"What ways?" asked Vernon suddenly and searchingly looking at his friend.
"Ah, you ask too much. I am not your partner yet."
"That means you have some knowledge about Lady Corsoon which you can use to force her to consent."
"Perhaps. I know a great deal about most people. Every one has his or her secrets as well as her or his price."
"Are you a private enquiry agent also?" sneered Vernon, leaning back.
"Ah!" Maunders seized upon the half admission. "Then you _are_ Nemo?"
"Yes," assented the dark man reluctantly, "although I can't guess how you came to know about my business. I wish the fact kept dark, as it would be disastrous for me in Society."
"Probably," admitted Maunders lazily. "One doesn't like to hob-nob with an Asmodeus who goes in for unroofing houses."
"Yet you propose to join Asmodeus," chafed Vernon uneasily.
"Oh yes; I think it's a paying business, you see, and I want money. How I learned about the matter is of no great consequence, and I don't think any one else will connect you with this Nemo abstraction. And when in partnership, I shall, of course, keep it dark for my own sake."
"I daresay," sneered Vernon, secretly furious at having to submit. "And on what terms do you propose to join in the business you despise?"
"Half profits," said Maunders promptly.
"Really. You seem to set some value on yourself."
"No one else will if I don't," replied Maunders good-humouredly. "See here, Arty--oh, then, Vernon if you will--your business as a private enquiry agent is to find out things about people, and----"
"I beg your pardon, but you talk through your hat," interrupted Vernon acidly. "My business is to assist people to settle business which the general public is not supposed to know. I don't find out people's business. They come to me with difficult cases, and I settle them to the best of my ability."
"Yes, yes," said Maunders leniently, "you put the best complexion on it, old man, but it's dirty work all the same."
"It is nothing of the sort," almost shouted Vernon; then sank his voice to a furious whisper; "my business is perfectly honest and clean. The nature of it requires secrecy, but I take up nothing the doing of which would reflect on my honour. I have precious little money and also a logical way of looking at things. For that reason I trade as Nemo."
"Under the rose, of course," laughed Maunders. "You don't put your goods in the shop window. However, I understand perfectly, and I am willing to come in with you. Oh, make no mistake, my dear chap, I am worth having as a partner, as I know heaps about Tom, Dick, and Harry, which they would rather were kept out of the newspapers."
"I don't run a blackmailing business," said Vernon passionately.
"What a nasty word, and wholly unnecessary. I never suggested blackmailing any one, that I know of. All I say is, that, having a goodish acquaintance with the seamy side of Society life, I can earn my half of the Nemo profits by assisting you."
"And if I refuse?"
"I shall hint--mind you I shan't say anything straight out--but I shall hint that you are a professionally inquisitive person."
"I don't know if you are aware of it," said Vernon slowly, "but you are a scoundrel."
"Oh, dear me, no; not at all," rejoined the other airily, "I am simply a young man with the tastes of a duke and the income of a pauper. Naturally I wish to supplement that income, and your secret business seems to offer advantages in the way of earning immediate cash."
"And if I don't consent you will do your best to ruin me socially?"
"That's business," said Maunders promptly. "Get a man into a corner and skin him at your leisure. Well, do you consent?"
"I can't do anything else, that I can see," said the other bitterly. "However, you must give me a week to come to a decision."
"Take a month," answered the visitor generously. "I'm not in a hurry to skin you, old man. You can't get out of the corner, you know. And see here, if we make a fortune out of this business, I'll give you a chance with Lucy, and take Ida Dimsdale with her ten thousand a year."
"Will she have that much?"
"Oh, certainly. I made inquiries," said Maunders coolly. "It's no use jumping in the dark you know. Old Dimsdale--his Christian name's Martin--was a Police Commissioner in Burmah some years ago, and shook the pagoda-tree to some purpose. Now he's retired, and lives in a gorgeously glorified bungalow, which he built at Hampstead. He's not a bad chap, and Ida is uncommonly good-looking. I might do worse."
"What about Colonel Towton?"
"I'll cut him out. He's a very young colonel of forty-five, handsome and smart, but with precious little brain about him. He's got an ancient country house in Yorkshire, and--but here, I'll be talking all the night." Maunders jumped up. "And Lucy is waiting for me. You can take a month."
"Thank you," said Vernon frigidly. "I shall give you my answer then."
"It will be 'yes,' of course; you can't say anything else. I say"---Maunders threw a laughing glance over his shoulder--"by this time you must have changed your opinion as to my being an ass," and he departed still laughing.
Vernon ran after him and touched his shoulder. "Not an ass, but a scoundrel," he breathed with suppressed passion, and Maunders' laughter increased.
CHAPTER II.
A CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATION.
When Maunders passed into the atrium, Vernon returned slowly to his seat under the peristyle. Here he ordered a fresh cup of strong coffee to clear his brain, lighted another cigarette, and sat down to recall the late conversation. As a preliminary to a thorough consideration of the situation, he ran over in his mind what he knew of the man who wished to become his partner. His memories showed Maunders to be an exceedingly unscrupulous person, who was ready to do anything to gratify his appetite for pleasure.
Vernon's recollections carried him back to a Berkshire village of which his father had been the squire. Mrs. Bedge, the widow of a Levantine merchant, had taken a house in the neighbourhood, and there had settled with her nephew, Constantine Maunders. It seemed that her sister had married a naturalised Greek, hence the boy's Christian name. As the parents were dead, Mrs. Bedge, being without offspring, had adopted the orphan. From what Vernon remembered, Maunders had always been a handsome and charming little boy, who usually got his own way by sheer amiability and good looks. But he had inherited more from his Greek father than a classical face and a Christian name which smacked of old Constantinople, for he was crafty and clever, and utterly without moral principle. He could conceal his feelings admirably, he could scheme for his wants very dexterously, and he told a lie or the truth with the utmost impartiality when either suited the end to be gained. Posing as an innocent angel-child, he deceived everyone, and although outwardly he appeared to be an unsophisticated babe, he was in reality a little monster of egotism. Even when they were children together, Vernon--from bitter experience--had always mistrusted Constantine, and had judged his character more accurately than grown-up people. Those were invariably taken in by the brat's cherubic aspect.
At Eton, Constantine fared less happily. He was ten years of age when his aunt sent him there, and, as Vernon then was fifteen, she had asked him to look after her darling. But all Vernon's chivalry could not save Constantine from well-deserved kicks and thrashings. Schoolboys are not to be taken in by angel-children, so Constantine did not have a happy time. However, he was so diplomatic and unscrupulous that he managed to scramble through school life fairly well. At Oxford--whither he went some years after Vernon--he got on better, and became a general favourite because of his general pliancy of disposition. By means of that same pliancy he usually secured his selfish ends, under a guise of consistent amiability. Being quick-brained and clever, if somewhat shallow, he secured his degree, and left the University with an excellent character. Since then he had been a man about town, supported by his aunt's money. Mrs. Bedge had settled in London at Constantine's request, and could refuse him nothing. Yet--as Vernon judged from what the young man had said--even Mrs. Bedge's generosity could not supply Maunders with sufficient money to gratify the selfish desire he had always had for pleasure. Only the income of a Rothschild could have entirely satisfied his cravings for the delights of existence.
Vernon had been less lucky in life. His father had speculated rashly, and three years prior to the meeting of the young men at the Athenian Club had died a comparative pauper. Thrown on his own resources and without a profession, Vernon had utilised his observant and logical faculties to set up in private practice as a detective. For two years he had carried on the trade with success and without having been found out. But now that Constantine had come on the scene, Vernon felt that there would be trouble. Of course, by taking him as a partner an exposure could be avoided, but only temporarily. Maunders was so ready to make mischief that Vernon felt he would take all he could get out of the business, and when prosperous by marriage with Ida Dimsdale, would not hesitate to tell the truth. The sole safeguard lay in the fact that, being tarred with the same brush, Maunders for his own social sake might hold his tongue. He was always clever enough to avoid the publication of any facts to his disadvantage. It really seemed, on these grounds, that it would be judicious to admit him as a partner. But Vernon shivered at the prospect. At the best, such a business as he was engaged in, was a delicate one and decidedly unpopular. With Maunders' unscrupulous methods it might degenerate into a series of shady transactions.
"But I'll take the month and think it over," thought Vernon, when he had finished his coffee and cigarette. "Much may happen in thirty days which may enable me to get out of the difficulty." Then he took out his watch and noted that it was ten o'clock. "Just time to see Dimsdale," he yawned.
When putting on his light overcoat in the vestibulum, Vernon thought it was a strange coincidence that Maunders should have mentioned--incidentally, of course--the name of the man with whom he had an appointment at half-past ten o'clock. Earlier in the day Vernon had received a pressing note asking him to meet the writer at Colonel Towton's chambers, Ralph Street, St. James's, at that hour. So, as a matter of fact, two names pertinent to the situation had been mentioned, Dimsdale and Towton. Vernon wondered as he walked along Pall Mall what the reason could be. He did not believe in coincidence, and had sufficient experience of life to doubt the existence of chance, so the mention of the names taken in conjunction with the appointment must point to some problem being worked out. Vernon believed--as every thoughtful man must believe--that everything was worked out in the unseen world before it became a factor in the visible plane, and he was quite prepared to find, on this assumption, that the meeting with Dimsdale in Towton's chambers was more important than it appeared to be on the surface. Subsequent events proved that he was right in his conjecture.
Meanwhile--as he was a one-thing-at-a-time man--he sauntered leisurely along towards his destination, wondering what Dimsdale wished to see him about. The ex-police-commissioner was one of the very few people who knew of the business in Covent Garden. Dimsdale had been a life-long friend of Vernon's father, and had welcomed the young man with open arms to his home. It was odd that Vernon had not fallen in love with Ida, as nothing would have pleased Dimsdale better than to have given his daughter and her money to his old friend's son. But Fortune in her freakish way had decided that Vernon should fall in love with Lucy Corsoon, where every obstacle would be placed in the way of a successful wooing, so Ida and Arthur had settled contentedly down into a brother and sister relationship.
Dimsdale was annoyed that his pet project of a marriage could not come to pass, but there was no help for it, as he could not govern the young man's affections. Also he was annoyed because Vernon, when the death of his father occurred, would not let the elder man assist him. However, he told him his plans about the private inquiry office, and although the ex-police commissioner did not wholly approve, he judged from his knowledge of the young man's detective powers, that it was the best use he could put his talents to. More than this, he managed to bring him clients, and to spread the fame of Nemo by dexterous allusions. Vernon therefore was doing very well in the line he had struck out for himself, and felt duly grateful to Dimsdale for his assistance. He thought as he walked along Ralph Street that probably the old gentleman had found him a fresh client. But it was odd that Colonel Towton's chambers should have been chosen as the meeting place, since Dimsdale belonged to several clubs. And the matter, whatever it was, must be very important, else Dimsdale would have waited until Vernon paid his weekly visit to the Hampstead bungalow.
It was only a quarter-past ten o'clock when Vernon arrived, and he thought that he would have to wait. But Towton's servant intimated that Mr. Dimsdale was watching for his visitor in the Colonel's particular sanctum, and ushered the young man into the room, after relieving him of his coat and hat. The Colonel himself did not appear to be present, but Martin Dimsdale was smoking in a deep arm-chair, and jumped up in his boyish way to shake hands warmly. He always had a great regard for Arthur Vernon.
The room was an ordinary apartment, comfortably furnished, but in a strictly bachelor fashion. The scheme of colour was deep green and deep red, so that it appeared somewhat sombre. Trophies of Towton's sporting instincts in the shape of skins and heads appeared on the walls and on the floor. There were many military portraits and groups about, reminiscent of the Colonel's army life. The two windows were open and the curtains were pulled back, so that the room was fairly cool, while on the table stood a syphon, some glasses and a decanter of whisky, together with a box of cigars. These were at Mr. Dimsdale's elbow. He had evidently been passing the time in smoking and drinking pending his young friend's arrival.
"I'm glad to see you, boy," said the ex-police commissioner, pointing to a chair. "Sit down and make yourself at home. Towton gives me full permission to play in this yard. Have a peg and a cigar."
"Not too strong, please," warned Vernon, accepting a cigar and sinking into the indicated chair. "I haven't so steady a head as yours."
"It's a cleverer head," said Dimsdale, squirting in the potash. "Else I should not have asked you to meet me here--Nemo."
"Oh!" Vernon placed the glass beside him. "I thought it was a Case. But why did you ask me to meet you in Towton's rooms, and where is Towton?"
"At my sister's ball along with Ida and Miss Hest."
"Lady Corsoon's ball?"
Dimsdale sat down and nodded. "Yes. It's a swell affair, as Sir Julius wants to make an impression on some Australian people he desires to rope into his schemes for making money. Something to do with mines, I believe. I didn't feel inclined to go, although I daresay I'll have to look in later to fetch Ida and Miss Hest home. I wished particularly to see you." His manner assumed a portentous gravity. "So I asked Towton if I could come here and make the appointment."
"But at your club----"
"What I have to say is sacred and secret," interrupted the old gentleman. "A club has many eyes and many ears. Better be on the safe side. Oh, that's all right," he added with a nod, on seeing Vernon's eyes stray to the open window. "Those only look out over the roofs of houses. No one can hear us. Whisky all right; cigar drawing well? Very good. Now then!" He settled himself for an exhaustive talk.
The old Indian officer had certainly not been dried up by the hot climate where he had spent the greater part of his life. He was a round, tubby, rosy-faced little man, all curves and gracious contentment. His face was clean-shaven and his head was bald, while his sharp grey eyes twinkled behind golden-rimmed pince-nez, balanced on an unimportant nose. With his round head and round body--sphere super imposed on sphere--and short legs, he looked like the figure of a Chinese mandarin, and nodded his head like one when he wished to emphasise a point. There was nothing military about him in any way, and Vernon wondered how so natty and neat an old gentleman ever came to have command of men appointed to hunt down Dacoits in the jungles of Burmah. Yet Dimsdale's official career had been a stirring one, and he had done good service in pacifying the country after the war. Now he had beaten his sword into a plough-share, and, with a considerable fortune, was spending his amiable old age under his own fig-tree. When Vernon looked at the rotund little man with the round rosy face, he saw before him a perfectly contented human being, and a very kind-hearted one to boot.
"Well, sir," he said, leaning back comfortably, "we're tiled in, as masons say, so I shall be glad to hear what you have to tell me. Also, I am obliged to you for seeking out this especial case for me."
"Two special cases, my boy, two special cases," said Mr. Dimsdale, wagging his head and looking more like a Chinese mandarin than ever. "One has to do with me--I'll tell you about it later; the other has to do with Mrs. Bedge and her adopted son."
"Maunders!" cried Vernon, astonished to find that his premonition was coming true. "You don't mean Constantine?"
"Yes, I do, Arthur; of course I do. Young Maunders. I never did like that boy somehow in spite of his good looks and polite manners. After all, he's half a Greek, and I don't like the Greeks either. They're nearly as tricky as the Armenians, and that's saying a lot. All the same, I'm sorry for the sake of Emily. I'm an old friend of Emily. Ha, ha! I was in love with her before she married Bedge. He was a Levantine merchant, you know, dealt in currants and cherry jam and all the rest of it. Not a bad chap, from what I remember of him, but far too old a husband for Emily----"
"Do you mean Mrs. Bedge?" asked Vernon, vainly endeavouring to stem the flow of the old man's speech.
"Of course I mean Mrs. Bedge. I call her Emily because--ha! ha!--I was in love with her. She was a handsome girl in those years, and a good one. Why, look how she adopted that rascal--I can't help thinking young Maunders a rascal, though he does want to marry Ida, which is not to be thought of. Yes, yes! Emily always was good. I don't believe a word of it, not a word." And Mr. Dimsdale, bringing his fist down on the table, glared at his companion through his pince-nez.
"You don't believe a word of what?" asked Vernon soothingly.
"I'm coming to that; I'm coming to that. Don't worry me and hurry me." Mr. Dimsdale rubbed his nose in a vexed manner. "Young Maunders, now. Eh, what? Have you seen young Maunders lately?"
"It's odd you should ask that," said Vernon slowly, "because I have just parted from him at the Athenian Club."
"Don't have anything to do with him, Arthur; he's a bad lot, a very bad lot indeed. Oh, it's nothing that he has done. I wouldn't say to anyone else what I am saying to you. But I can read character, and I have observed Master Constantine. He's so selfish that he would boil Emily for his own gratification, if it pleased him. And she would let herself be boiled, too; she's as silly over the scamp as he is selfish towards her. Why do you cultivate his society? Eh, what? It's wrong and stupid; yes, yes, stupid and wrong."
"I haven't seen so very much of him since we left Oxford," objected Arthur, "and certainly I don't cultivate him, as you put it, for I admire his character as little as you do."
"And on more tangible grounds, perhaps? Eh, what? Tell me."
"No; I have not much to go on. At school and at college, and when we were children together in Berkshire, I never wholly liked Constantine. He's too selfish and too unscrupulous, although he always keeps on the right side of the law. Still, if he could do anything for his own benefit against the law without being found out and made to pay the penalty, I believe he would have little hesitation in doing it."
"I daresay; no doubt you speak the exact truth from intuition. He's a snake that young man, a pretty, curly, insinuating snake; he's poison in a well-shaped and well-coloured bottle. Poor Emily! poor Emily! silly woman, but goodness itself. She's a Mrs. Lear with a thankless adopted child, sharper than a serpent's tooth. Bless her, and damn him for a rogue, though, bless me, I can't bring any actual charge against the young beast. Ha, no! but when one sees smoke, one guesses fire."
"Did you tell him that I was Nemo?" asked Vernon bluntly.
Dimsdale grew furiously red and furiously angry, so angry indeed that he rose to stamp about the room. "How the devil can you ask me such a question, and how dare you, if it comes to that? Am I an ass, an idiot, a babbler? I wouldn't tell Maunders that I had eaten my dinner, much less inform him of a secret which it is to your advantage to keep. Why do you ask? Hang you, for thinking me a traitor and a gossip."
"Forgive me," said Vernon with an apologetic air. "I am quite sure that you have preserved the secret of how I earn my money. But I know that Constantine haunts your house, and thought you might have let drop a casual hint, which he is clever enough, as we both know, to take advantage of. But the fact is he had found out about Nemo, and threatens unless I take him into partnership--he has given me a month to turn over the proposition--that he will make Society too hot to hold me."
"The young rascal, the young blackmailing scoundrel," cried Dimsdale, stamping again. "It's just what he would do. He haunts my house to make love to Ida, and I would rather see her dead than as his wife, especially now that I know what I am about to tell you."
"What is it?"
"Later on I shall explain. Meanwhile, don't beat about the bush, but tell me exactly what Maunders threatens."
Vernon detailed the conversation, and Dimsdale returned to his seat to hear the narrative. When it was ended he nodded with compressed lips. "Very clever on the part of Master Snake. He has you in his power right enough, since he is ready to betray you if you don't obey his commands. Well, then, I am going--to a certain extent--to put him in your power."
"What? Have you found out----"
"I have found out nothing," said Dimsdale testily. "Don't interrupt. Do you know of a blackmailer called The Spider?"
Vernon half rose and then sat down again with an effort at self-control. "I have come across his work on several occasions, and so has Scotland Yard. No one knows what he is or where he lives or anything about him. He gets his name from the fact that he always signs his blackmailing letters with the stamped representation of a spider."
"Go on," said Dimsdale, quite calmly for him, "tell me more."
"There is little to tell, sir. The Spider learns people's secrets somehow, and in a way which no one can discover. He then writes to this or that person and threatens unless a certain sum of money is paid to publish the secret by means of postcards sent to the private address and sometimes to the club of his victim. Of course, there is no combating this mode of procedure, so most people pay quietly, although some have kicked."
"Why isn't the reptile arrested when he comes for his money? Tell me that, sir. Tell me that."
"Sometimes the money is sent to a given address, and at other times The Spider, masked and cloaked, meets his victim personally. He is not arrested because he always tells his victim that if the police are brought into the question, and he is jailed, the especial secret will be published all the same to the world by a hidden accomplice by means of postcards. So you can see, Mr. Dimsdale, that if any person wishes his or her secret to be preserved they cannot risk an arrest. Still, I have been employed by one or two victims to learn the truth, and I have failed. I can't lay hands on The Spider, nor can any of the official detectives."
Mr. Dimsdale nodded. "He's a clever animal," said he grimly. "You have described his mode of procedure extremely well, my boy. It's just the way in which he is tormenting Emily."
"Mrs. Bedge. Is he blackmailing her?"
"Of course he is. Don't I tell you so?" said Dimsdale crossly. "She asked me to come and see her yesterday, and showed me three letters, with the figure of a spider at the foot of the writing. The reptile wants five thousand pounds, else he will send cards to her private address and to her friends stating that Constantine is her illegitimate son."
"What?" Vernon leaped from his chair aghast.
"Of course, it's an infernal lie," said Dimsdale warmly. "Emily is a good woman, even though she jilted me to marry a man old enough to be her father. She was true to him; I swear she was true to him, and simply adopted the son of his partner Maunders--his real name was Constantine Mavrocordato--because the boy's father and mother were dead."
"There is no grounds for this assertion on the part of The Spider?"
"Absolutely none. Confound it, sir, you know Emily," raged Dimsdale. "Can you know her and doubt for a moment but that this viper has made a most iniquitous accusation? She has the boy's certificate of birth, and can prove the truth, and moreover can call evidence on the part of friends who knew about the adoption when it took place. But you know that mud sticks, Arthur, however innocent a person may be. Emily simply can't stand up against this blackguard attempt. If she refuses to send the five thousand pounds to the address given within a fortnight, The Spider says he will send cards making his lying assertion to all her friends. Even if she rebutted it--as she can--there would always be shrugged shoulders and raised eyebrows and cold looks, and no-smoke-without-fire remarks."
"True!" Vernon looked thoughtfully at his cigar tip. "Plenty of innocent people do not care to face publicity on that account. Human nature is so prone to believe the worst, even in the face of the very plainest evidence. What does Mrs. Bedge propose to do?"
"She wanted to send the money, but I suggested that she should let me place the matter in your hands."
"Thank you. I'll do my best. But it's a difficult case, as The Spider is so hard to find."
"On this occasion I don't think he will be," said Dimsdale with grim humour, "since I propose to work with you."
"I don't understand----"
"Don't I speak plainly?" asked Dimsdale tartly. "I said there were two cases, didn't I? Answer me, sir; answer me?"
"Yes, but----"
"There is no but about the matter, Arthur. I shall make a full explanation after I have asked a simple question."
"And the question?"
"You see, don't you, how this information places Maunders, young beast, in your power?"
"No, I don't," answered Vernon very plainly and somewhat aggressively; "if you mean that I am to use my knowledge of his falsely being accused of illegitimacy as a threat to keep him from worrying me into a partnership."
"I don't mean that in the least," cried Dimsdale warmly. "Confound you, sir, would you make me out to be no better than this spider reptile. What I mean is that you can say to Maunders that you will receive him into partnership if he hunts down The Spider and clears the character of his adopted mother. Not that Emily's character requires clearing in my eyes, mind you. But we must consider the limitations of human nature, my boy, and place Emily, like CÆsar's wife, above suspicion. Now do you understand? Eh, what? Reply, sir."
Arthur nodded. "I understand. And if Maunders hunts down The Spider he will be worth engaging as a partner."
"No, I don't mean that. But you are setting him to achieve an impossibility, and unless he fulfils your wish he cannot hope to be a partner. In the meantime, you and I hunt down The Spider. Then when we have him jailed, Maunders, not having done what you asked of him, can't expect to become a partner."
"I think he will in any case?" said Vernon grimly.
"I think not, sir," said Dimsdale very distinctly. "Of course, Emily is all right, and this blackmailing accusation is a lie. All the same, Maunders, who is anxious to secure a position in Society and marry Ida--confound him, he never shall with my consent--will not wish the slightest breath of his being a possible natural child to get about."
"I should say nothing," said Vernon stiffly.
"Quite so. I never expected you would. But the mere probability of the business becoming known will make Maunders careful. He won't worry you again, as, judging you by his own iniquitous self, he will think you capable of betraying him. _Now_ can you see?"
"Yes. But Constantine knows that I would never speak."
"I daresay, because he thinks the bribe isn't enough. He believes as Peel did--or Walpole was it?--that every man has his price. He won't worry you, I tell you, if you give the merest hint to him of the matter. Not that you need to, for he will know about this blackmailing letter to-morrow."
Vernon recalled how Maunders had said that his aunt had detained him, and how he had suggested that she had something on her mind. "He doesn't know it at present, anyhow."
"No. Emily saw me before speaking to him. However, listen to the scheme I have in my mind to catch this Spider wretch. He is trying to blackmail me."
"Oh!" Vernon sat up and laughed. "How ridiculous. You of all men cannot be blackmailed, since your life is so open."
"No man's life is open," said Dimsdale drily; "and mine has its dark pages as everyone else's has. I have a secret; not a particularly bad one, it is true. Still, one that I should prefer to keep to myself."
"What is it?"
"I shan't tell you or any man," snapped the ex-police commissioner. "It is sufficient to say that it is not a very bad secret, and that even if it were told to the world it would matter little. However, The Spider--hang him, I think he must have some acquaintance with my life in the East--has learned something I thought no one but myself knew anything about. He asks one thousand pounds, which is moderate compared with his demand on Emily. Shows that he knows my secret isn't so very deadly, or it would be worth more."
"Did he write to you?" asked Vernon alertly. "Of course he did, making the usual threat of exposure by postcards to self and friends. Now I am going to consent to his demands."
"And pay the money?"
"I didn't say that," corrected Dimsdale sharply, "but I am writing asking him to meet me in my library, and receive the money; also for him to hand over any documents to me which even hint at my secret. When he comes, you can be concealed in the room and we'll take him in charge."
"But then your secret will become known," objected Vernon. "The Spider always provides against arrest by leaving the evidence in the hands of others to publish."
"He can publish what he likes about me," said Mr. Dimsdale coolly; "don't I tell you that the secret is of little value. The Spider in his letter to me embroidered upon actual fact, and can make things unpleasant; but I can prove the exact truth of what he states, and so can save my bacon. There may be a few cold shoulders, but I shan't care for that, especially when my own conscience is clear. Now, don't ask me to tell you my secret, for I shan't. It has nothing to do with you or anyone else. All you have to do is to come to-morrow or the next day to my house at Hampstead, and I'll sketch out the plan of campaign."
"What about Mrs. Bedge?"
"She has a fortnight to consider the payment. We shall catch the scoundrel before then--you understand. Eh, what? Good! Now I must be off to Julia's ball. Are you coming?--not asked! Of course; you love Lucy, and that will never do for Julia, who wants her to make a titled match. Good-night! Ha, ha! You have plenty to think about. Don't get brain fever. Good night!"
Then the oddly-assorted pair parted for the time being.
CHAPTER III.
HOW THE TRAP WAS SET.
As Martin Dimsdale had spent the greater part of his sixty years in Burmah, he naturally retained an affectionate remembrance of that most fantastic country. This he showed by calling his house "Rangoon;" and, as a further concession to what might almost be termed his native land, the house was built after the fashion, more or less accurate, of a bungalow. On arriving some ten years previously in England, Mr. Dimsdale had purchased an ancient Grange with its few remaining acres, situated on the verge of Hampstead Heath. In spite of the fact that the mansion was historic and famous, this Vandal pulled it down, amidst the protests and to the grief of various antiquarians. On the cleared ground he erected the rambling one-storey building which reminded him of the Far East. It was not an entirely Indian house, nor a wholly Burmese house, nor an absolutely English house, but a bastard mixture of all three, as the chilly northern climate had to be taken into consideration. But Dimsdale looked upon it as a genuine reconstruction of the bungalows to which he had been accustomed, and would hear no argument to the contrary. This was just as well for those who differed from his views, as he was a peppery little man, voluble in speech.
From the wide road, which flanked this corner of the Heath, the grounds were divided by a tall and thick-set laurel hedge, which must have taken years to attain its present stately beauty. At right angles to this, red-brick walls, old and mellow, ran back for a considerable distance to terminate in another hedge of mingled holly and oak saplings and sweetbriar and hawthorn. A gate in the centre of this gave admittance to a well-cultivated kitchen-garden of two acres. Beyond, and divided from the garden by a low stone wall, stretched the meadows, encircled by aggressive barbed-wire fences. The whole, consisting of eight acres, belonged to the man who had built the bungalow, and was a very desirable freehold for a well-to-do middle-class gentleman.
In the first square between the hedges and brick walls stood the house, looking quite dazzling in the sunshine by reason of its white-tiled walls and the raw hue of its red-tiled roof. Round three sides ran a deep verandah, and the fourth side--at the back--bordered the cobble-stone yard, at the sides of which were the stables and outhouses. Everything here was neat and trim and sweet-smelling, as Mr. Dimsdale would tolerate no litter, and was fidgety about the drainage. This was just as well, seeing that the stables were over-near the dwelling. Some judicious person had earlier pointed out to Mr. Dimsdale that it would be advisable to erect them beyond the kitchen-gardens and in the meadows, but the little man, out of sheer obstinacy, refused to entertain the idea, and built them cheek by jowl with the house.
On either side of the bungalow, trellis work covered with creepers shut off the yard from the front garden. This last, consisting of smooth lawns bordered by brilliantly coloured flowerbeds, stretched to a rustic-looking, white-painted gate set in the laurel hedge. To this, a broad walk, sanded to a deep yellow tint, ran from the shallow steps leading up to the front verandah. Two noble elms--the sole survivors of a once well-wooded park--sprang one on each side of the path, from the trim lawns.
The building itself looked most unsuitable to the chilly English climate, with its spotless walls and French windows. These, of which there were many, opened directly on to the verandah, which was paved warmly with red bricks, rectangular and thin. Each window was provided with green shutters, fastened back during the day and tightly closed every night at dusk. On entering the front door Mr. Dimsdale's visitors beheld a square hall, and the first object which struck the eye was a large gong, held shoulder high by two fierce-looking Burmese warriors carved in unpainted wood. Darkly blue Eastern draperies, glittering with tiny round looking-glasses, veiled the left door, which led into the library, and the right door, through which the dining-room was entered. Passing between curtains of similar texture and style, hanging straightly from the ceiling, the visitor came into a spacious room with a slippery polished floor and a high glass roof, which lighted the apartment, since, occupying the centre of the bungalow, there could be no side windows. Folding valves of carved sandalwood on either side gave entrance into two long narrow passages, broken by many bedroom doors. The bedrooms themselves looked on to the side verandahs through French windows, as has been described.
At the end of the middle apartment--which, like the Athenian Club antrium, was the general meeting place of those in the house, and served the purpose of a drawing-room--was another draped portal, admitting Mr. Dimsdale's male guests into a large billiard-room and a comfortable smoking-room; also his lady guests into a boudoir and a music-room. Beyond these, and shut off by another narrow passage at right angles to those at the sides, were the kitchen, the servants' quarters, and the domestic offices. As the stables, in the opinion of many people, were too near the house, the kitchen was too far distant from the dining-room. But Mr. Dimsdale, who was fond of delicate fare, prevented the cooling of the food in transit by having it brought to the table in hot-water dishes. He secretly acknowledged to himself that he was wrong as regards both stables and kitchen, but would never admit any oversight to his friends. As he had been his own architect, he believed "Rangoon" to be almost perfect in construction, design, beauty, and in its blending of Indian charm and English comfort. And in the main he was not far wrong.
The house was filled with quaint Eastern curios, and draperies and contrivances and furniture, although of this last there was comparatively little, since Mr. Dimsdale did not care to overcrowd his rooms, as is the English fashion; perhaps it was this sparseness which gave the house its foreign look. The library was furnished with tables and couches and chairs and bookcases of black teak, elaborately carved, while the central apartment contained nothing but bamboo chairs and tiny bamboo tables, all of which were covered with brightly-hued draperies. The dining-room was the most English-looking part of the house, as it was decorated and furnished in the Jacobean manner, and looked massively British. But the French windows--three in the front and three at the side--uncurtained and pronouncedly bare, admitted too great a glare into an apartment sacred to eating, which, for some traditional reason, is always supposed to have rather a twilight atmosphere. But Mr. Dimsdale loved plenty of light and fresh air and all the sunshine he could get, hence the many windows of the bungalow. It would have been easier to have removed the walls dividing the rooms from the verandah, and to have given them the full publicity of Eastern shops. And perhaps only the climate prevented Mr. Dimsdale from going this length. He was a fanatic in many ways, and had the full courage of his cranky convictions.
As a police commissioner, Mr. Dimsdale had been secretly in partnership with a Chinese merchant, who traded from Singapore to Yokohama, and from Canton to Thursday Island; that is, he supplied the capital and Quong Lee managed the investments. Thus the astute Englishman was enabled to return to England with an ample income, and proposed to spend the rest of his earthly life in enjoying it. The bungalow was his hobby, and he never grew weary of improving its beauties or of showing them to admiring friends. As he was a widower--Mrs. Dimsdale occupied a lonely grave in the Shan States--he had no one to coerce him into spending his money in any other way. It is true that Ida, his only child, was handsome and marriageable and light-hearted; but, having comparatively simple tastes, she did not yearn over-much for a fashionable life. Certainly she knew many in the great world, and sought society to some extent during the season, created by man; but, for the most part, she preferred the home-life of "Rangoon," which was assuredly lively enough and not wanting in interest even to the insatiable appetite of the young for pleasure. Her father, like many Anglo-Indians, had been accustomed, save when he had been stationed in lonely places, to much society, and was also gregarious by instinct. He invited Far East friends to sit at his hospitable board in the Jacobean dining-room, and made many new ones, who were ready enough to welcome an amusing, experienced old traveller for the sake of his society if not of his money. Dimsdale knew many people in the neighbourhood of Hampstead, and also a considerable number in the West End. His sister, Lady Corsoon, and her husband, Sir Julius, were his sponsors as regards this last locality. Besides, Mr. Dimsdale belonged to several clubs, took an interest in politics and the doings of the younger generation, which had matured during his exile, spent his money freely, and was always an amusing, chatty companion. With such qualifications it was no wonder that he possessed a large circle of friends, and was everywhere welcome. It must be admitted, however, that some frivolous people thought he was rather a bore, especially when he held forth about Rangoon.
Then there was Miss Hest--Frances Hest--who was so frequently staying in the bungalow, and was so sisterly with Ida that she might almost be regarded as another daughter of the jolly ex-police-commissioner. Her brother, Francis Hest, of Gerby Hall, Bowderstyke, Yorkshire, was a comparatively rich and superlatively far-descended north-country squire, who was quite a rural king in his own parochial way. But as his sister found the rustic life somewhat dull, she had come to London, after quarrelling with her brother, who did not approve of her leaving home. To force her to return he allowed her next to nothing to live on, and, not having a private income, she had earlier been in great straits. But being a clever girl of twenty-five, and gifted with the dramatic instinct, she had turned her talents to account very speedily. A retired actor with the odd name of Garrick Gail, who termed himself a professor, had polished her elocutionary powers, and she had obtained engagements to recite at various "At Homes." During the three years she had been in London, she had improved her chances so much that she made quite a good income. She was seen everywhere and knew everyone, and being a handsome, well-dressed girl of good family--no one could deny that--she made the most of her opportunities. Of course, Francis Hest resented her behaviour; but, always mindful that she was his sister, he extended a grudging hospitality to her for six months of the year, if she chose to accept it. Miss Hest did, but not in its entirety, and simply ran down to Gerby Hall when she felt inclined. She also had a flat in Westminster, but for the most part spent her days and nights at "Rangoon" in the company of Ida Dimsdale. The two girls, who had met by chance at a fashionable "At Home" two years previously, had struck up a sincere friendship, and saw as much of each other as possible.
Some few days after the conversation between Vernon and Dimsdale in Colonel Towton's chambers, the two girls were together on the verandah of the bungalow, busily engaged in sending out invitations for a ball. In honour of her birthday--she was now twenty-three--Ida had prevailed upon her father to allow her to give a masquerade in the central apartment. That was to be cleared for dancing--not that it needed much clearing, so sparsely was it furnished--and all those expected were told to wear masks and dominoes. At midnight all the guests were to unmask, and supper was to take place. Ida limited her guests to the number of one hundred, and, with the assistance of Miss Hest, she was weeding out undesirable people. With a bamboo table between them and a screen to keep off the hot sunshine--it was now the end of June and extremely sultry--the young ladies were too intent on their agreeable work to notice that a stranger was advancing up the yellow-sanded path. And yet, as the newcomer was Arthur Vernon, he could scarcely be called a stranger, seeing that he was a friend of the house and a weekly visitor.
On this special occasion he had called to resume with Mr. Dimsdale the conversation about The Spider, and, in his anxiety to complete the business--which included the setting of a trap for the blackmailer--would have passed by the girls in order to interview his old friend. But Frances, who seemed to have eyes at the back of her head--as Vernon had noticed on several occasions--drew Ida's attention to him at once. "Here is Mr. Vernon, dear," she said, pushing back her chair and straightening her tall, imperial form. "Let us ask him to suggest someone."
"Good-day, Miss Hest; good-day, Ida," said Vernon advancing easily, and looking very smart in his Bond Street kit. "Someone for what?"
Ida shook hands in her friendly, sisterly way and explained. "In a week we are giving a masked ball in honour of my birthday, and just now Frances and I are making out the invitations. Only a hundred people, Arthur, as the house won't hold any more comfortably. Here is the list--ninety-five names, as you see. So we thought----"
"That you might suggest a few other people," finished Miss Hest, leaning gracefully on the back of her chair. "We want gentlemen more than ladies."
"Isn't a week's notice rather a short one to give for an entertainment of this sort?" asked Vernon, running his eyes over the submitted list.
"Why should it be?" demanded Ida, opening her eyes. "There is no fancy dress to get ready, and I don't expect that everyone will be engaged on that particular night."
"It's the mid-season, you know, Ida."
Miss Hest nodded her approval. "I told Ida that. Everyone may be engaged."
"Well, I can't change the date of my birthday, dear, and I didn't think of a masked ball until yesterday. If we send out invitations for one hundred and fifty guests, that number will be sufficient. Everyone can't have other engagements on that especial night."
"I don't know so much about that," said Frances in her deep voice, which was of the contralto species. "People work desperately hard during the season."