Chapter Six
Miss Burton arrived home on a Monday by a mid-day train; her attentive brother met her at the station. She was one of those girls who look smart and neat under the most trying circumstances. Although it was a long journey, she bore no signs or stains of travel.
“When does Jack arrive, not too soon, I hope?” commented George, as he assisted her into a cab, and sat down beside her.
“He wanted to come down to-night, but I vetoed that,” responded the girl. “I told him people might put two and two together. He will get here mid-day to-morrow. I shall meet him casually in the High Street. He is going to bring Murchison along with him. And I shall give them an impromptu invitation to dinner.”
“I don’t know that I am very keen on having Murchison to dinner,” remarked Mr Burton in rather a growling tone.
Miss Burton shrugged her shoulders. “And, perhaps, of the two, I am less keen than you are. But we have got to play it pretty quiet down here, till the whole lot of us clear out. Better to let Murchison come. He is pretty suspicious, as it is, but if we shut him out, he’ll be more suspicious still.”
Mr Burton chuckled in a grim fashion.
“Well, our inquisitive friend, the whole lot of them as a matter of fact, can’t do you much harm now. You’ve got him tight enough. And I’ll say this for him, he’s a bit soft and all that sort of thing, but he’ll always play the game.”
The girl did not reply for a moment, then she spoke in a voice that was low and soft:
“Yes, he’s a dear little chap, he’ll always play the game.”
“He can afford to,” was the rather ungracious comment. Clearly Mr Burton was not in one of his best moods to-day.
Mr Pomfret returned from his short leave on the following day, and at once sought his friend.
“Glad to be back, old man, got fed-up with London,” he cried cheerfully. His excuse for his visit was that he had to go up to see his aunt’s solicitors, on some pressing affairs which the old lady had entrusted to him, after her temporary recovery from her dangerous illness.
Now Murchison was pretty quick. He already had a shrewd suspicion that Jack had been making a great many surreptitious visits to Rosemount, that Hugh had been asked there now and again as a blind. And when he happened to be present, he had noticed that Jack and Norah had taken very little notice of each other. Jack had cultivated the brother, and left his friend to entertain the attractive young woman. In itself, this rather obvious attitude was suspicious. It confirmed his impression that there was a private understanding between the young people, and that they were throwing dust in his eyes.
He had already put two and two together, with regard to the concurrent absences. Mr Burton, meeting him in the High Street two days after Norah’s departure, had told him his sister was paying a visit to a married relative who lived at Brighton. He would have not believed Mr Burton on his oath.
And Jack had taken his few days’ leave, with the ostensible object of attending to his aunt’s affairs.
Hugh was pretty certain that the silly young ass, as he affectionately designated Jack in his own mind, had arranged to meet Miss Burton for a day or two in London, in order to enjoy her society, free from interruption or espionage. Of course, he was far from guessing the truth. He would not have thought Pomfret capable of any such daring action.
Jack had just expressed himself fed-up with London, and yet his demeanour was jubilant and hilarious. Of course, Hugh could not dream his attitude was that of the exultant bridegroom, almost intoxicated with the knowledge of having gained his heart’s desire. There had been a couple of lunches, perhaps a couple of dinners with a theatre thrown in. The buoyant Jack was living on these blissful memories.
Later in the day, the two men walked down the High Street, of course in accordance with a pre-arranged plan decided upon by the artful lovers. The first person they met was Miss Burton, sauntering along slowly; Miss Burton, now Mrs Pomfret, as fast as the ecclesiastical law of England could make her.
She welcomed them with her ready and charming smile. “What strangers we are,” she cried gaily. “And how nice to meet my only two friends in Blankfield.”
Pomfret did a little finessing on his own. “I have been away for a few days, too,” he explained glibly. “Had to go up to London to look after some business of my poor old aunt’s; only got back by the mid-day train.”
“Did you enjoy your visit?” inquired Hugh of Norah, with that stiffness which he could never quite dissociate from his manner when addressing either brother or sister.
“Yes and No,” was the answer. “On the whole, I had quite a good time, but I am not sorry to get back to Rosemount, and my little household gods. Knowing you both has made such a difference to my life here.”
She was laying it on a little bit thick, Hugh thought, and he fancied she looked more at Pomfret than himself, as she said it. But he made a suitable and courteous reply.
She was just about to turn away, when a sudden thought seemed to strike her.
“As Mr Pomfret and I have been such wanderers, would it not be nice to celebrate our return? Will you both come to dinner to-night, and we can relate our experiences?”
Pomfret jumped at the invitation, and Hugh had to follow suit. As a matter of fact, he was rather eager to go. They were both playing their parts very well, but he was quite convinced they were playing a part. He was more certain about Jack than about her. Jack had been a bit too glib, had over-acted, as it were. They had met in London, if only for a few hours; he would have bet a thousand pounds on that.
Jack declared that he would walk back to Rosemount with Miss Burton. He did not now care a farthing what members of Blankfield Society he met. Very shortly, the army would know him no more, and he would take up a new life with this fearless girl whom he had married on the sly.
Hugh strolled on, and looked in at the various shops. The High Street happened to be rather empty on this particular afternoon, the élite of Blankfield Society had not yet turned out for its usual promenade.
Turning away from a jeweller’s shop window, where he was inspecting some sleeve-links, he was confronted by a tall, sturdily built man of about fifty years of age, who raised his hat.
“I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Captain Murchison?” he inquired politely.
Hugh directed a swift glance at him. He was not exactly a common person, on the other hand he was certainly not a gentleman. There was something military in his bearing; he might have been a retired Sergeant-Major.
“That is my name,” answered Hugh a little curtly. “And who are you, please?”
The tall man took a card from his waistcoat pocket and presented it. “Those are my credentials, sir.”
Hugh ran his eye over it swiftly. He saw the name, Davidson, a common one enough, and, in the corner, Scotland Yard. Why the deuce should this agent of the police want to accost him? And how did he know his name was Murchison?
“I think you are acquainted with a family of the name of Burton, brother and sister they call themselves, who live at a house a little way out called Rosemount?”
“Of course I know them, that is to say, in a casual sort of way.” Needless to say that Murchison had never been more surprised in his life. “Why are you asking these questions?” Mr Davidson darted a keen glance up and down the comparatively empty High Street. “This is rather an exposed place in which to talk, but I have something to tell you which I am sure you will be interested to listen to. I am staying at the ‘Anchor,’ in a side street from this. If you will do me the honour to follow me, I can take you into a private room there, where we shall not be observed nor overheard.”
Like a man in a dream, Hugh found himself following Mr Davidson to the “Anchor,” one of the second-class hotels in the town. He was quite sure that this tall, military looking person was going to clear up the mystery of the couple whom Blankfield, in its wisdom, had refused to visit, and whose acquaintance he owed to a random meeting at a tea-shop.
There were only one or two idlers in the entrance-hall of the hotel, which was of what is known as the “Commercial” kind. Murchison was glad to find that he did not seem to attract their observation, as he rapidly crossed over to where his new acquaintance was standing in a rather dark corner.
Davidson piloted him into a little sitting-room which opened out of a long narrow passage. He rang the bell, and ordered refreshments with the manner of a man who was acquainted with the usages of polite society.
It would be quite safe to say that Hugh, the heir to a great fortune, brought up in the lap of luxury, an aristocrat by adoption, if not exactly by birth, had never found himself up till now in such an environment. He could not truthfully declare that it was an experience he wished to repeat.
Still, he could blame nobody but himself, his foolish action in taking up with a couple of persons whom Blankfield, in its superior worldly wisdom, had decided to ignore. As he was in for it, and nothing could undo the past, it was better to go through with it. Let him accommodate himself to the situation, drink his whisky-and-soda in this dingy little parlour of a second-rate hotel, and treat the detective with genial courtesy.
After the first mouthful of his drink, Davidson began to explain.
“Of course, sir, I quite understand this is not the sort of thing or the sort of place to which you are accustomed,” he said, waving a deprecatory hand round the shabby little parlour. “But in this particular case, I and my friend – that friend I may say at the moment is elsewhere taking his observations – wanted to lie low. It didn’t enter into our scheme to put up at a swagger hotel, and run the risk of gossip. It might have reached the ears of those we are after, and scared them off.” Hugh listened attentively. There was something very serious in the wind now, and the dwellers at Rosemount were as yet unaware of what was impending.
His surprise expressed itself in the direct question which he shot at the detective: “I take it you are here to arrest them, then?”
“One of them, the man,” corrected Mr Davidson, quietly; “we know a good deal about the girl, but we have no evidence that implicates her beyond the fact of her association with him, and from our point of view that means nothing in a Court of Law.”
“What is his offence?” asked the startled Hugh.
“Forgery,” was the laconic answer. “He belongs to a pretty well-known gang, and we have had our suspicions of him for a long time now, but he was devilish clever and cunning. Several of his pals were caught, but it was always difficult to rope him in. We shouldn’t have got him now but for the fact of one of his pals peaching. And even now, although the evidence is strong enough for us, I doubt if it is strong enough to get him more than a comparatively light sentence. If he can lay hold of a clever counsel, and there will be some money at the back of him, if not a great deal, he won’t come off so badly.”
So Mr Burton was a criminal, and had been living in Blankfield on the proceeds of his nefarious calling. The rich uncle in Australia who had left him a comfortable fortune was a myth.
“I suppose he has been on the ‘crook’ all his life?” queried Hugh.
“Ever since he has come under our observation,” was the reply of the detective. “Before he joined the present gang, a few of whom we have collared from time to time, card-sharping was his lay. Once he rented an expensive flat in Paris, and I believe made a tidy bit out of it. That is where the young lady first appeared upon the scene.”
“But how long ago is that? She doesn’t look more than twenty.”
“I know,” said Mr Davidson. “She looks wonderfully young, that is one of her assets. As a matter of fact I should say she was twenty-four at the least. The Parisian episode occurred about five years ago, making her nineteen at the time. He was there about twelve months, at the end of which time he got an introduction to the forging gang, and chucked the cards in favour of a more remunerative game.”
“She acted, I suppose, as a decoy and confederate?”
“So I am given to understand. She very seldom played herself, but used to signal the opponents’ cards to him.”
“What a precious pair,” groaned Hugh. He had long been doubtful of them, but he had never anticipated this.
“Now, Captain Murchison, there is a little question I want to ask you,” said the detective briskly, after a brief pause. “My pal and I only arrived here yesterday, but we have not been idle, we have picked up a good deal. We have discovered that nobody in Blankfield visits them, except yourself and another officer, a Mr Pomfret. That is true, is it not?”
“Quite true,” assented Murchison.
“You frequently go to their house together. But perhaps I may be telling you something you don’t know when I say that Mr Pomfret more frequently has gone alone.”
“I have had my suspicions some time,” was Hugh’s answer.
“Now tell me, please; I suppose in the evenings you played cards, or roulette, or some game of chance. I thought so. Did you lose much? Had you any suspicions they were rooking you?”
“On my first visit, a suspicion that they might do so crossed my mind. But nothing of the sort was attempted. I should say that, up to the present, my friend and I stand a bit to the good. Evidently, that was not their object.”
“Clearly,” assented the shrewd detective, “they had a deeper game than that on. They wanted to catch this young friend of yours for a husband, and failing that, to entrap him, so that they could blackmail him on the threat of a breach of promise case.”
“It looks as if that was their object.”
“Now, Captain Murchison, may I ask you if your friend is a man likely to fall into the trap? I saw him in the High Street this afternoon with you: and if I may say so without offence, he doesn’t give me the impression of a very strong or self-reliant person.”
Hugh shook his head. “I fear he is very weak, very impulsive, very emotional, a ready prey for a designing woman.”
“Have you any idea how far the thing has gone?”
To this question Hugh could only reply in the negative. His one hope was that the foolish boy had seen her so often that there was no necessity to write incriminating letters.
“Well, Captain Murchison, my object in asking you to grant me an interview was two-fold. In the first place, I wanted to know if there had been any card-sharping. Then, as I am aware you go to the house, I wished to tell you that I and my friend are going to take him to-night. It might happen that you would be going there, and of course, you will not want to be on the stage when we play our little comedy.”
“We have promised to go to dinner to-night. She asked us both when we met her this afternoon.”
“And of course now, you will not go. I will take him before dinner-time, so you need not send round any excuses.”
Poor Hugh felt very miserable. What he especially shirked was having to tell this sordid narrative to Pomfret. He expressed to the detective his shrinking from the unwelcome task.
“I quite understand, sir, but it’s got to be done,” replied the detective, firmly. For a few seconds after he had spoken, he seemed to be thinking deeply. Then he came out with a startling proposition.
“Look here, Captain Murchison, something has just occurred to me. I am not sure whether you will think it a good plan. Just now I thought it would be better for you not to be there. But if this young gentleman is so gone on the girl, it might make a deeper impression on him, bring home to him more strongly the sense of her unworthiness, if he were actually present at the scene. And it would spare you any painful explanations, beforehand. Afterwards you can tell him or not, as you please, about our interview here.”
Hugh made a gesture of disgust. “You propose that we should carry out our original intention of dining there and of sitting at the table of a criminal? I don’t think I could bring myself to it.”
If Mr Davidson did not quite agree with the young man’s scruples, he was open-minded enough to see the matter from Hugh’s point of view.
“I quite understand, sir. But I think I can manage it all right. You say they dine at eight. Get there with your friend a quarter of an hour before. I will be there with my friend at five minutes to, before the dinner is served. You then won’t have to sit at his table, you see.”
Hugh was still hesitating. Mr Davidson proceeded to clinch his argument.
“You see, sir, it will be so much better for Mr Pomfret to see with his own eyes and hear with his own ears. When he has seen us clap the darbies on Burton, and listened to what I can tell him about the girl – you can just give me a lead there, if you don’t mind – I think he will be cured of his calf-love on the spot. As far as he is concerned, we want to make a swift and sudden cure, to kill his affection at once.”
Yes, on the whole, after a little further reflection Murchison was disposed to fall in with this new suggestion. Pomfret, however deep his infatuation, could not resist the evidence of his own senses. He would be much more strongly impressed than by a mere bald narration of the facts as conveyed to his friend by the detective.
So it was settled. Hugh would bring Pomfret to Rosemount at twenty minutes or a quarter to eight. At five minutes to, Davidson and his colleague would present themselves to execute their painful errand.
“Just a word before I go,” said the young man as he turned towards the door. “Is the man’s name really Burton, or only an alias?”
“That is his real name. Of course he has had aliases. His family, I understand, are respectable people of the lower middle-class. He was the black sheep, born with crooked and criminal instincts.”
“And the girl, is she really his sister?”
“On that point, I have no positive information,” replied Davidson. “She has passed as such ever since the Paris days. But I should very much doubt it. I am informed that they are very unlike in manners and appearance, that he is a rough sort of fellow, while she would pass anywhere for a lady.”
Hugh went back to the barracks, more than rejoiced at the fact that the detective seemed to have appeared on the scene in the very nick of time. If marriage was contemplated as the result of this clandestine wooing, what a terrible tragedy would be averted from the unlucky Pomfret!
Chapter Seven
It was twenty minutes to eight as the two young men rang at the door bell of Rosemount. Pomfret was always a slow dresser. It was only by extraordinary efforts that Hugh had got him off in time.
Brother and sister were awaiting them in the pretty drawing-room, lit with softly shaded lamps. Miss Burton rose to meet them, she extended a hand to each, in her pretty graceful way, as if she looked upon them both as her dearest friends, and would make no difference between them in her greeting.
But Hugh was very wide-awake, after his meeting with the detective, and he did notice that the left hand which she extended to Pomfret lingered a little longer in his responsive clasp than did the right which she had given to him.
Yes, it was obvious that their acquaintance had gone far. There was even, he fancied, an intelligent sympathy in their mutual glances. Pomfret was the lover, Hugh Murchison was simply the friend.
Mr Burton welcomed them heartily. “Just like old times,” he cried in his rough, breezy fashion. “I’ve been like a fish out of water during Norah’s absence. It was just like her to organise a little party, simply us four, to celebrate her return.”
It struck Hugh that his conviviality was just a trifle forced, that he seemed “jumpy” and nervous. Had he by chance spotted those two strangers in the High Street, and wondered what manner of men they were?
Pomfret settled himself on the chesterfield beside Norah, in spite of her rather obvious signals to preserve a more discreet attitude. Ignorant of what was going to happen a few minutes hence, her great object was to conceal the fact that Jack should take the position of an acknowledged lover.
In her secret heart, she was very apprehensive of Murchison. She knew he was suspicious of her, and he had a sort of elder brother affection for Pomfret. She was not by any means sure as to the lengths to which this fraternal feeling might lead him. It might even inspire him to evoke the assistance of the Pomfret family, and then the security of her present position might be menaced.
The secret marriage was, after all, in the nature of a gamble. If things turned out as she expected, if the old aunt died in reasonable time, the odds were in her favour. She could twist Jack round her little finger. But nobody knew better than this astute young woman of the world that there is many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip. Something that she had not calculated, not foreseen, might happen at any moment, and her house of cards might tumble to the ground. Her adventurous life had taught her never to be too sure of momentary prosperity.
She was a little bit nervous and “jumpy,” like her brother, to-night. Her smile was a little forced, her high spirits rather assumed. The wedding-ring, the marriage certificate hidden from sight, were great assets. And yet, was it all just a little too good to be quite true?
Murchison talked with the brother, desultory sort of talk, hardly conscious of what he was saying. His ears were straining for the sound of that electric-bell which would herald the arrival of Davidson and his colleague.
And it came very quickly. There was a loud, imperative peal. Burton started from his seat, and forgot his assumed good manners.
“Who the devil is that?” he cried fiercely. “Do they want to knock the house down?” It was the vulgar exclamation of a very vulgar man.
Miss Burton was more mistress of herself, but Hugh observed that her cheek went a shade paler. Well, it was only natural. These two had been living in fear of the law for more years than they cared to remember. And they had thought they were safely in harbour. Poor fools!
She turned to Pomfret, and forced a wan smile. “It is really quite alarming, Mr Pomfret, visitors at this time of the evening. And you know so well that nobody in Blankfield, except yourselves, ever crosses our threshold.”
The happy Jack, the husband of a few short hours, was quite unperturbed. He smiled back at her confidently.
“Somebody come to the wrong house, I should say. Why, you have gone quite pale! What a nervous little thing it is!” He whispered the last sentence in a lover-like tone.
Murchison felt every nerve in his body tingling. Jack was in a state of ignorance. The brother and sister, he was sure, were filled with vague and undefined alarms. He, alone out of the four sitting in that charming little drawing-room awaiting the announcement of dinner, was sure of what was going to happen.
He stole a look across at Pomfret with the happy, fatuous smile of the successful lover on his face. Poor devil! In another couple of minutes he would be terribly disillusioned.
There was a heavy trampling of feet across the hall. The visitors, whoever they were, had pushed past the trim and ladylike parlourmaid.
The drawing-room door was flung open, and the two big men, Davidson and his colleague, advanced towards Burton who was standing in the middle of the room.
The detective spoke in a clear, ringing voice. “It’s all up, Mr Burton, I won’t trouble to recount your various aliases. I’ve a warrant here to arrest you on a charge of forgery. You’ve gone free for some time, but one of your old pals has peached upon you. Hard luck for you, otherwise you might have been playing still, perhaps for ever, this nice little ‘stunt’ at Blankfield. I suppose you will come quietly?”
For a few seconds George Burton indulged in some horrible imprecations. In the same breath he protested his absolute innocence, and denounced the “pal” who had betrayed him. Mr Davidson cut him short, as he fastened the handcuffs on his wrist.
“Stow it, old man! Be a sport. It’s a fair cop, isn’t it? You knew the risk you ran when you went into this business.”
Mr Burton subsided. “Yes, it’s a fair cop,” he growled. “I don’t blame you, you are only doing your duty. I’ve no grudge against you. But by Heaven, when I come out, I’ll do for that swine who has given me away, if I have to swing for it.”
Pomfret had risen from his seat on the chesterfield at the dramatic entrance of the two strangers. Norah had risen also. In the few seconds that elapsed between their entrance and the clapping of the handcuffs on Burton, she stretched out appealing arms to him, and cried out in a voice of despair:
“Stand by me, Jack, stand by me. I knew nothing of this. It is as great a surprise to me as to you. Oh, my poor brother! He has done this for love of me.”
Murchison heard the impassioned tones, the despairing appeal. They would have melted a heart of stone. What effect would they have upon the unsuspicious Jack?
Pomfret withdrew himself, almost coldly, from the proffered embrace. In a few seconds, as it seemed to Hugh, he had grown from a boy to a man.
He turned to the detective, and Hugh was delighted at the sudden dignity that seemed to have come to him.
“You seem to know a great deal about this man whom you have handcuffed, and who admits you are only doing your duty. Do you know anything about his sister, Miss Burton?”
Mr Davidson glanced significantly at Murchison. They had arranged a little conversation between themselves, but Jack’s frankness had rendered this unnecessary.
“What I know of the young lady, sir, I am sorry to tell you, is not to her credit. She has been associated with this man for some years. She started with him in Paris some time ago, when he was a card-sharper, and running a gambling-saloon. But to be fair, she is not in this business with him, and I have nothing against her.”
“Are they what they represent themselves to be, brother and sister?” Pomfret’s voice was very quiet, but there was in it a suppressed note of agony. How he had loved this girl, and a few hours ago he had clasped her in his arms as his wife!
The keen eyes of the detective softened as he looked at Jack, who was hiding the most intense agitation under an apparently stoical demeanour.
“I have no accurate information on that point, sir, but I should very much doubt the fact of their relationship.”
While this brief conversation was taking place between Pomfret and Davidson, Norah was still standing with arms outstretched.
Again there came forth the appealing, impassioned cry: “Jack, stand by me! Jack, stand by me!” She sank down on the sofa, and put her hands before her face. “Stay with me, wait till they have all gone, and I will explain everything. I have nothing to do with this.”
But Pomfret stood like a man turned to stone. Then suddenly, Norah gave a little gurgling cry, and fainted. Pomfret made a step towards her, and halted. His great love for her had been killed. Perhaps at this moment he hated her more than he had ever loved her.
The parlourmaid, with a white face, was peeping in the room. Davidson beckoned to her.
“My colleague will help you to take her up to her room. Look after her. She’s as game as they make them, but to-night’s been too much for her. She has been playing for big stakes, and she has lost.”
The maid and Davidson’s burly assistant lifted up the recumbent form. And when they had carried her out, Pomfret’s self-control seemed to give way. He suddenly clutched at his throat and turned to Hugh.
“Old man, I have had as much as I can stand. For Heaven’s sake, take me from this accursed house.”
Hugh put his arm under his to steady him. The boy’s nerve had gone, he was trembling like a man stricken with the ague. There was no cab or taxi to be got in this outlying district. They had to walk back to the barracks.
Hugh planted him in an easy-chair in his own quarters, and mixed him a stiff peg. Even Dutch courage was better than nothing. Pomfret drank it in two big gulps. Then he pulled himself together.
“I have been an infernal fool, old man,” he gasped, “an infernal fool.”
Hugh spoke soothingly. “Of course you have. But the folly is over. You now know Norah Burton and her rascally brother for what they are, a pair of criminals and adventurers.”
“But you don’t know all,” groaned the unfortunate Jack. “Norah Burton is my wife. I married her secretly the other day, by special licence, while I was up in London.” Hugh leapt to his feet in astonishment. He had his own ideas of that visit to London, coupled with Norah’s absence. But that Pomfret, weak and impressionable as he was, should have made such a fool of himself, was beyond the limits of his comprehension.
In a moment he pulled himself together. The poor lad was in a big mess enough, it was no time to rub it in. “Tell me all about it, old chap,” he said quietly.
And Pomfret told him. He made it clear, perfect gentleman as he was, that Norah had been the least to blame in the matter, that the suggestion had come from himself, that Norah had insisted upon consulting her brother before yielding to his wishes.
Yes, of course, Hugh could understand all that. They had known just the kind of man they were dealing with. They had hooked and landed their fish well. To a woman in her uncertain state, a husband with some prospects was better than her insecure position with a scoundrel like George Burton.
Hugh filled a big pipe full up with a very strong and potent tobacco. He thought better when he was smoking, and this was a situation that demanded a good deal of thought.
After a while he spoke. “Well, Jack, let us look facts in the face. What is done can’t be undone. You have married this woman, and as long as she lives she is entitled to call herself Mrs Pomfret, and you will have to keep her. There is no getting over that.”
The unhappy Jack groaned. There was no getting over that. This attractive, charming young woman, sister or confederate, or whatever relationship she stood in to this wretched criminal, was his legal wife, and, if she chose, she could make things very uncomfortable for him.