“I’ve been there,” replied old Mr. Lloyd as he sipped his glass of fine wine.
“Then why not try Italy? Glorious bright weather all through our foggy season – Rome or Florence, for instance?”
“No, I hate Italy.”
“Spain, then? Good hotels in Madrid and Barcelona. In Madrid there is a small circle of English society, good opera, and lots of interesting places to visit by motor,” Rayne suggested, for, as a rapid traveler all over Europe, he knew every Continental city of importance.
The old man was rather struck by the latter suggestion.
“I certainly am rather tired of Bournemouth and Colwyn Bay and Hove in winter,” he admitted. “I’ve never been to Madrid.”
“Then go, my dear fellow. Go by all means. The journey is quite easy. Just the train by day to Paris, and then by sleeping-car on the Sud Express right through to Madrid.”
“Yes. But it’s an awful trouble,” replied the rich old man.
“No trouble at all!” laughed Rayne as he pulled at his cigar. “I don’t like to see you in this rut of hotels. It’s bad for you! It only leads to drinks in the bar till late and bad headaches in the morning. You must buck up and get out of it.”
“Well, I’ll see,” replied the old fellow, and then we all three rose and rejoined the ladies.
Oh, what a farce the whole thing was! I longed – I yearned to yell my disclosures against the man who like an octopus had now placed his tentacles around me. But I saw that it was futile to kick against the pricks. I had only to wait and to watch.
For a whole week things proceeded in good, well-ordered regularity. Mr. Lloyd was our guest and everyone made themselves pleasant towards him. Lola, with whom I had frequent chats in secret, had somehow become disarmed. She no longer suspected her father of any sinister intent, the reason being that he had taken the old man as his dearest and most intimate confidant.
One night after I had beaten old Mr. Lloyd at billiards and he had gone to bed, I passed by the door of the library and saw a streak of light beneath the door.
Therefore, believing that the electric light had been inadvertently left on, I opened the door, when I had a great surprise.
Rayne was seated in an arm-chair chatting with Madame Martoz, while on a settee near the window sat Madame Duperré.
All three started up as I entered, but a word of apology instantly rose to my lips, and Rayne said: “That’s all right, Hargreave. Indeed, I wanted to talk to you. Look here,” he went on, “I want you to go to Madrid after old Mr. Lloyd goes there, as no doubt he will. You’ll stay at the Ritz in the Plaza de Canovas, and ask no questions. I’ll send you instructions – or perhaps Duperré may be with you.”
“When?” I asked in surprise, as it appeared that the rich old gentleman had, after all, arranged to go to Spain.
“In ten days or so. When I tell you. Till then, don’t worry, my dear boy. When I make plans you know that you have only to act.”
“To the detriment of our unsuspecting guest, eh?” I remarked in a low bitter voice.
“That is not polite, George,” he said sharply. “You are our paid servant, and such a remark does not befit you.”
“Whether it does or not, Mr. Rayne, I repeat it,” I said defiantly. “I am not blind to your subtle machinations by which I have become your accomplice.”
He laughed triumphantly in my face.
“You are paid – and well paid for it all. Why should you resent? Are you an idiot?”
“I certainly refuse to be your tool!” I cried furiously.
“You have thrown in your lot with me as one who ventures constantly in big things just as any man who operates on the Stock Exchange. It is good sport. You, George, are a sportsman, as I am. And from one sport we both derive a good deal of fun.”
“And the victim of our fun, as you term it, is to be old Mr. Lloyd!” I remarked, looking him straight in his face.
But he only laughed, and said:
“Don’t be a fool. You are a most excellent fellow, Hargreave, except when you get these little fits of squeamishness.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to roundly refuse to have anything further to do with him and leave the house, but I knew, alas! that now I had stolen the famous ruby in Paris he would have no compunction in giving me over to the police.
And if I, in turn, gave information against him, what could I really prove? Practically nothing! Rayne was always clever enough to preserve himself from any possibility of suspicion. It was that fact which marked him as the most amazing and ingenious crook.
So I was forced to remain silent, and a few minutes later left the room.
On the following Friday Mr. Lloyd left us. Rayne bade him a regretful farewell, after making him promise to return to us for a fortnight when he got back from Spain.
“Probably my secretary, Hargreave, will have to go to Madrid upon business for me. I have some interest in a tramway company at Salamanca. So you may possibly meet.”
“I hope we do, Mr. Hargreave,” said the old gentleman, turning to me warmly. “I shall certainly take your advice and try Madrid for a few weeks.”
“Yes, do. You’ll like it, I’m sure,” his host assured him, and then we drove away.
“When are you going to Spain?” Mr. Lloyd asked me as he sat at my side on our way to Thirsk station.
“I really don’t know,” was my evasive reply. “Mr. Rayne has not yet fixed the date.”
“Well, here’s my address,” he said, handing me a card with his name and “Reform Club” on it. “I wish you’d write me when your journey is fixed and perhaps we might travel together. I’d be most delighted to have you as my companion on the journey.”
I took the card, thanked him, and promised that I would let him know the date of my departure.
CHAPTER X
THE PAINTED ENVELOPE
On my return I told Rayne of the old man’s invitation, whereat he rubbed his hands in warm approval.
“Excellent!” he cried. “You must travel with him and keep an eye upon him – just to see that nobody – well, that nobody molests the poor old fellow,” he laughed grimly.
I saw his meaning, but I was in no way anxious to become the traveling companion of a man who had, without doubt, been marked down as the next victim.
A fact that aroused my curiosity was that all the time Mr. Lloyd had been with us Duperré had been absent – in Brussels, I believe. His identity was evidently being concealed with some distinctly malicious purpose.
I waited with curiosity. Next day Lola, who with her woman’s intuition had scented that something sinister was intended, expressed surprise to me that Mr. Lloyd was going to Spain.
We were walking together across the park beyond the lower gardens on our way to the village.
“Mr. Lloyd told me that he was going to Spain at father’s suggestion,” she said. “It seems to me rather strange that I should have been the means of bringing father and him together. I can’t understand the reason of it all,” she added, evidently much puzzled.
“Perhaps your father has some idea of transacting some lucrative business with him. Remember, he has a lot of financial interests in Spain.”
“Ah! yes,” replied the girl. “Of course. I never thought of that! Father has been to Madrid several times of late.”
I feared to tell her what I suspected of the secret visit of that handsome Spanish woman, or of how we had been observed at the Unicorn at Ripon.
On that same day Duperré returned. He had been abroad, for when I met him at the station I noticed that his luggage bore fresh labels of the Palace Hotel, at Brussels, and some railway destinations. At ten o’clock that night, after Lola had retired to bed, I was called to consult with Rayne and Duperré, who were smoking together in the billiard-room. Duperré had evidently related to him the result of his mysterious journeyings, and Rayne seemed in an unusually good humor.
“Sit down, George, and listen,” he said. “We have a little piece of important business to transact – something that will bring in big money. Duperré will explain.”
Vincent turned, and looking at me through the haze of his cigarette-smoke, said:
“There’s not much to explain, George. You have only to act on Rayne’s instructions. The matter does not concern you as, after all, you’re only a pawn in this merry little game which will do no harm to anyone – ”
“Only to old Lloyd,” I interrupted.
“To his pocket, perhaps,” Duperré laughed.
“Frankly, you mean to rob him, as you have so many others.”
Duperré frowned darkly, and exchanged angry glances with Rayne.
“I think that remark is entirely uncalled for,” Rayne said resentfully. “You have thrown in your lot with us, as I have told you before, and with your eyes wide open have become one of my trusted assistants. As such you will receive my instructions – and act upon them without question. That is your position. And now,” he added, turning to Duperré, “please explain.”
Duperré laid down his cigarette-end in the tray, and said:
“Well, look here, George. What you must do is this. You will write to old Lloyd at the Reform Club to-morrow and tell him that you are leaving for Madrid on Tuesday week upon important business for our friend Rayne. You will suggest that he goes to the Ritz while you go to the Hôtel de la Paix in the Puerta del Sol, as being less expensive. You, as Rayne’s secretary, cannot afford to stay at the Ritz, you understand?”
“Then there is a specific reason why we should not stay at the same hotel, eh?” I asked.
Duperré hesitated, and then nodded.
“I may come out to Spain and join you in a few days after your arrival. At present I don’t exactly know.”
So, though full of resentment, I was compelled to the inevitable. Next day I wrote to the Reform Club, and in reply received a letter appointing to meet me at Charing Cross Station on the following Tuesday week.
Lola became even more inquisitive next day. Whether her father had inadvertently dropped a word in her presence I know not, but she had somehow become aware that I had received orders to travel with Mr. Lloyd to Spain.
What was intended? The “business” upon which I was being sent to Spain was some coup which Rayne’s ever-active brain had carefully conceived. He had used his daughter’s bright and winning manners in order to become friendly with the wealthy and somewhat mysterious old man whom I was to conduct to Spain.
Naturally I was evasive as usually. I loved her, it was true. She was all the world to me. And my love was, I believed, reciprocated, but how could I admit my shameful compact with her father? I was now a thief, having been drawn into that insidious plot which I described in the previous chapter of my reminiscences as a servant to the King of Crookdom.
So we walked pleasantly along to the white-headed old village clockmaker, who was grandson of a well-known man who had fashioned the little grandmother clocks which to-day are so rare – the pet timekeepers of our bewigged ancestors. The name of the old fellow’s grandfather was on the list of famous makers of clocks in the days of George the Third, which you can find in any book upon old clocks.
On our walk back to the Hall we chatted merrily.
“I rather envy you your run out to Madrid,” Lola laughed. “I wish I could go to Spain.”
She was wearing a canary-colored jersey, stout boots, and carried a hefty ash stick, for she was essentially an out-of-door girl, though at night she could put on a short and flimsy dance frock and look the perfection of charm.
I took no notice of her remark, but purposely turned the conversation, and as we strolled back together we discussed a dance which was to be given two nights later by her friends the Fishers at Atherton Towers, about five miles distant.
On the morning appointed I met old Mr. Lloyd, who, to my surprise, had with him his niece, Miss Sylvia Andrews, a smart and pretty dark-haired girl of about twenty-five.
“At the last moment Sylvia wanted to come with me to see Spain,” the old gentleman explained as we sat in the boat-train speeding towards Dover. “I managed yesterday to get an extra sleeping-berth in the Sud Express.”
“I hope you will like Madrid, Miss Andrews,” I said gallantly. “You will find life there very bright and gay – quite an experience.”
“I’m greatly looking forward to it,” she said. “I’ve read all about it, and though I’ve been in France and in Italy quite a lot, I’ve never been in Spain, though I’ve always longed to see it.”
“I propose we break our journey at San Sebastian,” said Mr. Lloyd. “I want to see the place, and the Casino which is making such a bid against the counter-attraction of Monte Carlo. What do you say?”
“I’m quite agreeable,” I replied. “A couple of days’ delay makes no difference to me. As long as I am in Madrid on the sixteenth it will be all right. I have to attend a directors’ meeting on behalf of Mr. Rayne on that day.”
“Good! uncle,” cried the girl. “Then we’ll break our journey at San Sebastian, eh?”
And so it was arranged.
Two days later we stepped from the dusty sleeping-car in which we had traveled from Paris, and soon found ourselves driving around a wide bay with calm sapphire sea and golden sands – the far-famed La Concha.
We remained for two days at that luxurious hotel the Continental, on the Paseo, and visited all the sights, including the Casino, where we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Old Mr. Lloyd was an amusing companion, as I well knew, a man who seemed never tired notwithstanding his advanced age, while his niece was a particularly jolly girl who enjoyed every moment of her life.
Then we proceeded by the night express to Madrid.
Mr. Lloyd insisted that I should stay with them at the Ritz, but, compelled to obey Rayne’s instructions, I was forced to excuse myself on the plea that two of Rayne’s co-directors were to stay at the Hôtel de la Paix, and Rayne had wished me to stay with them for certain business reasons.
With this explanation the old gentleman was satisfied, so when at last we arrived in the Spanish capital I saw them safely to the Ritz, then went on alone to the Puerta del Sol.
That night we dined together, and afterwards we went to the opera at the Teatro Real. Next day we met again, and on several days that followed. I took them to see the sights of the capital, the sights which everyone visits, the Armeria, the Academy, the Naval Museum, the street life of the Plaza Mayor and the Calle de Toledo, the afternoon promenades in the Retiro Park and the Paseo de Fernan Nuñez.
In all they evinced the greatest interest. To both uncle and niece it presented fresh scenes such as neither had before seen, and I realized that old Mr. Lloyd had become brighter and far more cheerful than when with us at Overstow.
I had been at the Hôtel de la Paix for about ten days, when on returning late one night from visiting with Miss Andrews the celebrated Verbena de la Paloma – the famous fair held in the Calle de la Paloma – I found, to my surprise, Duperré awaiting me.
I explained the situation, but when I mentioned the presence of old Lloyd’s niece his countenance instantly fell.
“Why in the name of Fate did the old fool bring her here?” he exclaimed. “I thought he would come alone!”
“She’s quite a nice girl,” I remarked. “Full of high spirits and vitality.”
But Duperré only grunted, and I saw by the expression of his face that he was far from pleased that the old man was not alone.
“I don’t want to be introduced yet,” he said. “At present, though we can meet here in the hotel, we must be strangers outside.”
“And what is the game?” I demanded boldly, for we were together in my bedroom overlooking the great square and the door was locked.
“Nothing that concerns you, Hargreave,” was his hard reply. “I know you’re foolishly squeamish about some things. Well, in this affair just act as Rudolph orders and don’t trouble about the consequences.”
I realized that some evil was intended. Yet it was prevented by the presence there of Sylvia Andrews. What could it be?
Next day I met uncle and niece as usual, and we went for a motor ride together out to Aranjuez, where we saw the Palacio Real, and then on to Toledo where we visited the wonderful cathedral and the great Elcazar. I did not get back to the hotel till past ten o’clock that night, but I found Duperré anxious and perturbed. Why, I failed to understand, except that he seemed filled with annoyance that his plans had somehow gone awry.
Two days later when I called at the Ritz with the intention of accompanying Mr. Lloyd and his niece over the mountains to Valladolid, I found them both greatly excited.
“Sylvia had a telegram an hour ago recalling her to London as her mother is ill, and I am going with her. I cannot allow her to travel alone. We leave by the express at six o’clock this evening,” Mr. Lloyd said. “I am so very sorry to depart so suddenly, Mr. Hargreave. We were both enjoying our visit so much,” he added apologetically.
This surprised me until I returned to my hotel to luncheon, when Duperré, meeting me eagerly in the hall, asked:
“Well, is the girl going?”
“Yes,” I said. “How do you know?”
He smiled meaningly, and I felt that in all probability the telegram recalling the girl had been sent at his instigation, as indeed I afterwards knew it had been. So cleverly had matters been arranged by the crooks that Mrs. Andrews was actually very unwell.
“Yes, she’s off to-night – and the old man also,” I said, glad that he was to get out of the mysterious danger that undoubtedly threatened him.
“What!” cried my companion, staggered. “Is the old fellow actually leaving also? At what time?”
“By the six o’clock train – the express to Irun,” I replied.
He was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said abruptly in a thick voice:
“I don’t want any lunch. I want to think. Come up to my room when you’ve had your meal,” and then, turning on his heel, he ascended in the lift.
On going to his room after luncheon I found him standing by the window, with his hands in his pockets, looking blankly out upon the great square below.
Close by, upon the writing-table, was a small medicine phial and a camel-hair brush, together with several pieces of paper. It struck me that he had painted one of the pieces with some of the colorless liquid, for, having dried, it was now crinkled in the center.
“Look here, Hargreave,” he said. “I want you to telephone to the girl Andrews and ask her to meet you this afternoon at four, say in the ladies’ café in the Café Suzio, so that you can have tea together. When you’ve done that come back here.”
I obeyed, in wonder at what was intended. Then when I returned, he said:
“Sit down and write a note to the old man, asking him to let you have his address so that you can collect any letters from the Ritz for him and forward them. He’ll think it awfully kind of you. And enclose an envelope addressed to yourself; it will save him trouble.”
This I did, taking paper and envelope from the rack in front of me. I was about to address the envelope to myself, when he said:
“That’s too large, have this one! It will fit in the other envelope,” and he took from the rack one of a smaller size which I used according to his suggestion.
“Now,” he said, “you go and take the girl out and I’ll see that this letter is delivered – and that you get an answer.”
I met Sylvia, and we had quite a jolly tea together. Then, at five o’clock, I left her at the door of the Ritz, saying that I had sent a letter to her uncle asking for his address, and that knowing he would be very busy preparing to leave I would not come in.
On entering the Hôtel de la Paix the concierge handed me two letters, one from old Mr. Lloyd in reply to my note and the other that had been left for me by Duperré.
“I have already left Madrid,” he wrote briefly. “Whatever you hear, you know nothing, remember. Wait another week and then come home.”
I was not long in hearing something, for within a quarter of an hour Sylvia rang me up asking me to come round at once to the Ritz.
In trepidation I took a taxi there and found old Mr. Lloyd in a state of unconsciousness, with a doctor at his side, Sylvia having found him lying on the floor of the sitting-room. The doctor told her that the old gentleman had apparently been seized by a stroke, but that he was very slowly recovering.
Sylvia, however, pointed out that his dispatch-box had been broken open and rifled. What had been taken she had no idea.
Inquiries made of the hotel staff proved that just after his niece had gone out a boy had arrived with a note requiring an answer, and had been shown up to Mr. Lloyd’s room. The old gentleman wrote the answer, and the boy left with it. To whom the answer was addressed was not known.
The only person seen in the corridor afterwards was a guest who occupied a room close by, a Spaniard named Larroca.
I recollected the name. It was the man I had seen at the Unicorn at Ripon!
I made discreet inquiries, and discovered that Madame Martoz was living in the hotel.
The truth was plain. I longed to denounce them, but in fear I held my secret.
Old Mr. Lloyd hovered between life and death for a week, when at last he recovered, but to this day he cannot account for the mysterious seizure. I, however, know that it was due to a certain secret colorless liquid with which the gum upon the envelope I had addressed to myself had been painted over by Duperré. The old gentleman had licked it, and within five minutes he had fallen unconscious.
When he was sufficiently well to be shown his dispatch-box he grew frantic.
In it had been his cheque-book containing four signed cheques, as it was his habit to send weekly cheques to the woman who acted as housekeeper at his flat at Hove, which, by the way, he very seldom visited.
By some means Rayne had got to know of this, and by that clever ruse his accomplice got possession of the cheques, and ere the old man could wire to London to stop payment, all four had been cashed for large amounts without question.
Rayne and his friends netted nearly ten thousand pounds, but to this day old Mr. Lloyd entertains no suspicion.