This House to Let

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.

“Well, old man, you have made a hash of your life at the very beginning of it. As I say, that can’t be undone. You’ve got to make the best of it. I suppose you have entered into some financial arrangements with her.”

“Seven hundred a year till I come into my aunt’s money. After that, of course, our marriage was to be acknowledged, and we would live together.”

“I see,” said Hugh, assuming a cheerfulness he did not quite feel. “Well, I should not say she would try for more than her seven hundred a year at present. When your aunt dies she will of course fight for a bit more. I take it, after to-night’s work, you will never want to live with her, cajoling and attractive as she is.”

Pomfret shuddered. “After what that fellow said, my love for her died. But, by Heaven, Hugh, I did love her while I believed in her.”

“Of course, of course. Have you signed any document about that seven hundred, by the way?”

“Not yet. My solicitor is sending me the document to-day, it will reach me to-morrow morning.”