XXIII

There is little that is romantic about a Police Station, and Digby Groat, who came in a towering rage to release his servants, was so furious that he could not even see the humorous side of the situation.

Once outside the building he dismissed one, Antonio Fuentes, with a curse, and poured the vials of wrath upon the unhappy Jackson.

“You fool, you blundering dolt,” he stormed. “I told you to keep the man in sight; Bronson would have carried out my orders without Steele knowing. Why the hell did you carry a revolver?”

“How did I know he would play a dirty trick on me like that?” growled Jackson; “besides, I’ve never heard of the Firearms Act.”

It was a stupid but a dangerous situation, thought Digby Groat, as he sat gnawing his nails in the library. It was an old theory of his that great schemes come to nought and great crimes are detected through some contemptible little slip on the part of the conspirators. What Jim had done in the simplest, easiest manner, was to set the police moving against the Thirteen, and to bring two of its members into the searching light of a magisterial inquiry. What was worse, he had associated Digby Groat with the proceedings, though Digby had an excuse that Jackson was his valet, and, as such, entitled to his interest. He had disclaimed all knowledge of Fuentes, but, as an act of generosity, as the Spaniard was a friend of his servant, had gone bail for him also.

Had the Thirteen brought off a big coup, their tracks would have been so hidden, their preparations so elaborated, that they would have defied detection. And here through a simple offence, which carried no more than a penalty of a five-pound fine, two of the members of the gang had come under police observation. Madmen!

It was a sleepless night for him⁠—even his three hours was denied him. The doctor attending his mother did not leave until past three o’clock.

“It is not exactly a stroke, but I think a collapse due to some sudden shock.”

“Probably you’re right,” said Digby. “But I thought it best to call you in. Do you think she will recover?”

“Oh, yes. I should imagine she’ll be all right in the morning.”

Digby nodded. He agreed with that conclusion, without being particularly pleased to hear it.

Difficulties were increasing daily, it seemed; new obstacles were besetting the smooth path of his life, and he traced them one by one and reduced them to a single cause⁠—Jim Steele.

The next morning, after he had telephoned to a shady solicitor whom he knew, ordering him to defend the two men who were to be charged at Marylebone with offences under the Firearms Act, he sent for Eunice Weldon.

“Miss Weldon,” he said, “I am making changes in this house, and I thought of taking my mother to the country next week. The air here doesn’t seem to agree with her, and I despair of her getting better unless she has a radical change of environment.”

She nodded gravely.

“I am afraid I shall not be able to accompany you, Mr. Groat.”

He looked up at her sharply.

“What do you mean, Miss Weldon?” he asked.

“There is not sufficient work for me to do here, and I have decided to return to my old employment,” she said.

“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Weldon,” he said quietly, “but, of course, I will put no obstacle in your way. This has been a calamitous house recently, and your experience has not been an exceedingly happy one, and therefore I quite understand why you are anxious to leave us. I could have wished that you would have stayed with my mother until she was settled in my place in the country, but even on this point I will not press you.”

She expected that he would have been annoyed, and his courtesy impressed her.

“I shall not, of course, think of leaving until I have done all that I possibly can,” she hastened to add, as he expected her to do, “and really I have not been at all unhappy here, Mr. Groat.”

“Mr. Steele doesn’t like me, does he?” he smiled, and he saw her stiffen.

“Mr. Steele has no voice in my plans,” she said, “and I have not seen him for several days.”

So there had been a quarrel, thought Digby, and decided that he must know a little more of this. He was too wily to ask her point-blank, but the fact that they had not met on the previous day was known to him.

Eunice was glad to get the interview over and to go up to Mrs. Groat, who had sent for her a little earlier.

The old woman was in bed propped up with pillows, and apparently was her normal self again.

“You’ve been a long time,” she grumbled.

“I had to see your son, Mrs. Groat,” said Eunice.

The old woman muttered something under her breath.

“Shut the door and lock it,” she said. “Have you got your notebook?”

Eunice pulled up a chair to the bedside, and wondered what was the important epistle that Mrs. Groat had decided to dictate. Usually she hated writing letters except with her own hand, and the reason for her summons had taken the girl by surprise.

“I want you to write in my name to Mary Weatherwale. Write that down.” Old Mrs. Groat spelt the name. “The address is in Somerset⁠—Hill Farm, Retherley, Somerset. Now say to her that I am very ill, and that I hope she will forgive our old quarrel and will come up and stay with me⁠—underline that I am very ill,” said Jane Groat emphatically. “Tell her that I will pay her expenses and give her £5 a week. Is that too much?” she asked. “No, don’t put the salary at all. I’ll be bound she’ll come; they’re poorly off, the Weatherwales. Tell her she must come at once. Underline that, too.”

The girl scribbled down her instructions.

“Now listen, Miss Weldon.” Jane Groat lowered her voice. “You are to write this letter, and not to let my son know that you have done it: do you understand? Post it yourself; don’t give it to that horrible Jackson. And again I tell you not to let my son know.”

Eunice wondered what was the reason for the mystery, but she carried out the old woman’s instructions, and posted the letter without Digby’s knowledge.

There was no word from Jim, though she guessed he was the masked stranger who had knocked down Jackson in the hall. The strain of waiting was beginning to tell upon Eunice; she had grown oddly nervous, started at every sound, and it was this unusual exhibition of nerves which had finally decided her to leave Grosvenor Square and return to the less exciting life at the photographic studio.

Why didn’t Jim write, she asked herself fretfully, and immediately after relentless logic demanded of her why she did not write to Jim.

She went for a walk in the park that afternoon hoping that she would see him, but although she sat for an hour under his favourite tree, he did not put in an appearance and she went home depressed and angry with herself.

A stamp upon a postcard would have brought him, but that postcard she would not write.

The next day brought Mrs. Mary Weatherwale, a stout, cheery woman of sixty, with a rosy apple face. She came in a four-wheeled cab, depositing her luggage in the hall, and greeted Eunice like an old friend.

“How is she, my darling?” (“Darling” was a favourite word of hers, Eunice discovered with amusement.) “Poor old Jane, I haven’t seen her for years and years. We used to be good friends once, you know, very good friends, but she⁠—but there, let bygones be bygones, darling; show me to her room, will you?”

It required all the cheerfulness of Mrs. Weatherwale to disguise her shock at the appearance of her onetime friend.

“Why, Jane,” she said, “what’s the matter with you?”

“Sit down, Mary,” said the other pettishly. “All right, young lady, you needn’t wait.”

This ungrateful dismissal was addressed to Eunice, who was very glad to make her escape. She was passing through the hall later in the afternoon, when Digby Groat came in. He looked at the luggage, which had not been removed from the hall, and turned with a frown to Eunice.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. “To whom does this belong?”

“A friend of Mrs. Groat is coming to stay,” said Eunice.

“A friend of mother’s?” he answered quickly. “Do you know her name?”

“Mrs. Weatherwale.”

She saw an instant change come over his face.

“Mrs. Weatherwale, eh,” he said slowly. “Coming to stay here? At my mother’s invitation, I suppose.” He stripped his gloves and flung them on to the hall table and went up the stairs two at a time.

What happened in the sickroom Eunice could only guess. The first intimation she had that all was not well, was the appearance of Mrs. Weatherwale strutting down the stairs, her face as red as a turkey-cock, her bead bonnet trembling with anger. She caught sight of Eunice and beckoned her.

“Get somebody to find a cab for me, my darling,” she said. “I’m going back to Somerset. I’ve been thrown out, my darling! What do you think of that? A woman of my age and my respectability; thrown out by a dirty little devil of a boy that I wouldn’t harbour in my cow-yard.” She was choleric and her voice was trembling with her righteous rage. “I’m talking about you,” she said, raising her voice, and addressing somebody, apparently Digby, who was out of sight of Eunice. “You always were a cruel little beast, and if anything happens to your mother, I’m going to the police.”

“You had better get out before I send for a policeman,” said Digby’s growling voice.

“I know you,” she shook her fist at her invisible enemy. “I’ve known you for twenty-three years, my boy, and a more cruel and nastier man never lived!”

Digby came slowly down the stairs, a smile on his face.

“Really, Mrs. Weatherwale,” he said, “you are unreasonable. I simply do not want my mother to be associated with the kind of people she chose as her friends when she was a girl. I can’t be responsible for her vulgar tastes then; I certainly am responsible now.”

The rosy face of the woman flushed an even deeper red.

“Common! Vulgar!” she spluttered. “You say that? You dirty little foreigner. Ah! That got home. I know your secret, Mr. Digby Groat!”

If eyes could kill, she would have died at that moment. He turned at the foot of the stairs and walked into his study, and slammed the door behind him.

“Whenever you want to know anything about that!”⁠—Mrs. Weatherwale pointed at the closed door⁠—“send for me. I’ve got letters from his mother about him when he was a child of so high, that would make your hair stand on ends, darling.”

When at last a cab bore the indignant lady from Grosvenor Square, Eunice breathed a sigh of relief. One more family skeleton, she thought, but she had already inspected the grisly bones. She would not be sorry to follow in Mrs. Weatherwale’s footsteps, though, unknown to her, Digby Groat had other plans.

Those plans were maturing, when he heard a sharp rat-tat at the door and came out into the hall.

“Was that a telegram for me?” he asked.

“No, for me,” said Eunice, and there was no need to ask whom that message was from; her shining eyes, her flushed face, told their own story.