XXVIII

The end was coming. Digby Groat took too sane a view of things to mistake the signs.

For two years he had been in negotiation with a land agent in San Paulo and had practically completed the purchase of an estate. By subterranean methods he had skilfully disguised the identity of the purchaser, and on that magnificent ranch he intended to spend a not unpleasant life. It might not come to a question of flight, in which case the ranch would be a diversion from the humdrum life of England. And more than ever was he determined that Eunice Weldon should accompany him, and share, at any rate, a year of his life. Afterwards⁠—he shrugged his shoulders. Women had come into his life before, had at first fascinated, and then bored him, and had disappeared from his ken. Probably Eunice would go the same way, though he could not contemplate the possibility at the moment.

The hours of the morning passed all too slowly for Jim Steele. The partner brothers had said that their “Mr. Harry” would arrive at one o’clock, and punctually at that hour Jim was waiting in the outer office.

Mr. Harry’s train, however, must have been late. It was nearer two when he came in, followed by a porter carrying a thick parcel under his arm. Presently the porter came out.

“Will you go in, sir,” he said respectfully, and Jim stepped quickly into the room.

Mr. Harry, whom he had thought of as a boy, was a grave man of fifty, and apparently the younger brother of the eldest partner.

“We have found the log of the Battledore,” said that gentleman, “but I have forgotten the date.”

“June 21st,” said Jim.

The log lay open upon the big table, and its presence brought an atmosphere of romance into this quiet orderly office.

“Here we are,” said the partner. “Battledore left Tilbury 9 a.m. on the tide. Wind east by southeast, sea smooth, hazy.” He ran his fingers down. “This is what I think you want.”

For Jim it was a moment of intense drama. The partner was reading some preliminary and suddenly he came to the entry which was to make all the difference in the world to the woman whom Jim loved dearer than life.

“ ‘Heavy fog, speed reduced at 11:50 to half. Reduced to quarter speed at 12.1. Bosun reported that we had run down small rowing boat and that he had seen two persons in the water. Able seaman Grant went overboard and rescued child. The second person was not found. Speed increased, endeavoured to speak Dungeness, but weather too hazy for flag signals’⁠—this was before the days of wireless, you must understand, Mr. Steele.”

Jim nodded.

“ ‘Sex of child discovered, girl, apparent age a few months. Child handed to stewardess.’ ”

Entry followed entry, but there was no further reference to the child until he came to Funchal.

“In the island of Madeira,” he explained. “ ‘Arrived Funchal 6 a.m. Reported recovery of child to British Consul, who said he would cable to London.’ ”

The next entry was:

“Dakka⁠—a port on the West Coast of Africa and French protectorate,” said the partner. “ ‘Received cable from British Consul at Funchal saying no loss of child reported to London police.’ ”

There was no other entry which affected Jim until one on the third day before the ship arrived at Cape Town.

“ ‘Mr. Weldon, a Cape Town resident who is travelling with his wife for her health, has offered to adopt the child picked up by us on June 21st, having recently lost one of his own. Mr. Weldon being known to the Captain and vouched for by Canon Jesson’⁠—this was apparently a fellow-passenger of his,” explained the partner⁠—“ ‘the child was handed to his care, on condition that the matter was reported to the authorities in Cape Town.’ ”

A full description of the size, weight, and colouring of the little waif followed, and against the query “Marks on Body” were the words “Scar on right wrist, doctor thinks the result of a recent burn.”

Jim drew a long sigh.

“I cannot tell you gentlemen how grateful I am to you. You have righted a great wrong and have earned the gratitude of the child who is now a woman.”

“Do you think that this is the young lady?”

Jim nodded.

“I am sure,” he said quietly. “The log of Captain Pinnings supplies the missing link of evidence. We may have to ask you to produce this log in court, but I hope that the claim of our client will not be disputed.”

He walked down Threadneedle Street, treading on air, and the fact that while he had gained for Eunice⁠—her name was Dorothy now, but she would be always Eunice to him⁠—a fortune, he had lost the greatest fortune that could be bestowed upon a man, did not disturb his joy.

He had made a rough copy of the log, and with this in his hand he drove to Septimus Salter’s office and without a word laid the extracts before him.

Mr. Salter read, and as he read his eyes lit up.

“The whole thing is remarkably clear,” he said; “the log proves the identity of Lady Mary’s daughter. Your investigations are practically complete?”

“Not yet, sir,” smiled Jim. “We have first to displace Jane Groat and her son,” he hesitated, “and we must persuade Miss Danton to leave that house.”

“In that case,” said the lawyer, rising, “I think an older man’s advice will be more acceptable than yours, my boy, and I’ll go with you.”

A new servant opened the door, and almost at the sound of the knock, Digby came out of his study, urbane and as perfectly groomed as usual.

“I want to see Miss Weldon,” said the lawyer, and Digby stiffened at the sight of him. He would have felt more uncomfortable if he had known what was in Salter’s mind.

Digby was looking at him straightly; his whole attitude, thought Jim, was one of tense anxiety.

“I am sorry you cannot see Miss Weldon,” he said, speaking slowly. “She left with my mother by an early Continental train and at this moment, I should imagine, is somewhere in the region of Paris.”

“That is a damned lie!” said Jim Steele calmly.