Lord John in New York

"Nothing can ever separate us again, my darling!" I broke out suddenly, speaking my thought aloud.

"No, not even death," Maida said, softly, almost in a whisper.

"Don't think of death, my dearest!" I cut her short.

"I'll try not," she said. "But it seems so wonderful to dare be happy – after all. And the memory of that man – the thought of him – I won't call it fear, or let it be fear – is like a black spot in the brightness. It's like that big floating black shape, moving just enough to show it is there, in the silver water. Do you see?" and she pointed. "Does that sound we hear, come from it – like a bell – a funeral bell tolling?"

"That's a bell buoy," I explained. "I remember it well. You know, when I was a boy I spent holidays with my brother at Hasletowers; and I loved this old buoy. I've imagined a hundred stories about it; and – by Jove – I wonder what that chap can be up to!"

The "chap" whose manoeuvres had caused me to break off and forget my next sentence, was too far away to be made out distinctly. But he was in a boat which I took to be a motor-boat, as it had skimmed along the bright water like a bird. He had stopped close to the bell buoy, and was fitting a large round object over his head. Apparently it was a diver's helmet. In the boat I could see another figure, slimmer and smaller, which might be that of a boy; and this companion gave assistance when the helmeted one descended into the water over the side of the boat. For an instant I saw – or fancied that I saw – that he had something queer in his hand – something resembling a big bird-cage. Then he plunged under the surface, and was gone.

We were steaming slowly enough, however, for me to observe in retrospect, that the huge round head bobbed up a minute later, and that the black figure climbed back into the boat. But the cage-like object was no longer visible.

"Some repairs to the buoy, perhaps," I said, as the yacht took us on. But it seemed odd, I couldn't put the episode out of my mind. By and by I asked the yacht's captain to turn, and let us anchor not too far from the landing at Hasletowers, for me to go ashore comfortably when I wished to do so next day. The boat with the two figures had vanished. The bell buoy swayed back and forth, sending out its tolling notes; and the Lily Maid was the only other thing to be seen on the water's silver.

*****

At three o'clock the following afternoon I rowed myself ashore, and from the private landing walked up to my brother's house. I hadn't seen him or my sister-in-law since the day when I ran – or rather limped – away from Violet's London nursing home with its crowding flowers and sentimental ladies. But I had written. I had told them that I intended to marry Miss Madeleine Odell, the girl whom they had driven from England, shamed and humiliated. I had told them who she really was, and something of her romantic history. I had added that they should learn more when they were ready to apologise and welcome her. Later, I had wired that we were being married unexpectedly soon, and that we should be pleased to have them at the wedding if they wished. Haslemere had wired back that they would be prevented by business of importance from leaving home, but their absence was not to be misunderstood. He invited me to call at Hasletowers and talk matters over. On this, I telegraphed, making an appointment for the day after my marriage; because to "talk things over" was what I wanted to do – though perhaps not in precisely the way meant by Haslemere.

If I'd expected my arrival to be considered an event of importance, I should have been disappointed. Haslemere and Violet had the air of forgetting that months had passed since we met, that I'd been through adventures, and that this was the day after my wedding. If we had parted half an hour before, they could hardly have been more casual!

I was shown into the library, where Haslemere (a big, gaunt fellow of thirty-eight, looking ten years older, and with the red hair of our Scottish ancestors) and Violet (of no particular age and much conscious charm) were passionately occupied in reading a telegram. I thought it might have been mine (delayed), but in this I was soon undeceived.

"Hello, Jack!" said Haslemere. "How are you, dear boy?" said Violet: and then both began to pour out what was in their hearts. It had not the remotest connection with Maida or me. It concerned themselves and the great charity sale of historic jewels which, it seemed, Violet was organising. What? I hadn't heard of it? They were astounded. England was talking of nothing else. Well, there was the war, of course! But this subject and the war were practically one. The sale was for the benefit of mutilated officers. Nobody else had ever thought of doing anything practical for them, only for the soldiers. Violet had started by giving the Douglas-heart ring which had come down to her from an ancestress made even more famous than she would have been otherwise, by Sir Walter Scott. This splendid example of generosity had set the ball rolling. Violet had only to ask and to have. All her friends had answered her call, and lots of outsiders who hoped thereby to become her friends. Any number of nouveaux riches creatures had actually bought gorgeous antique jewels in order to lay them at Violet's shrine – and, incidentally, that of the Mutilated Officers.

"Nearly a hundred thousand pounds' worth of jewels is here, in this room, at this moment," my sister-in-law went on impressively, "but it won't be here many moments longer, I'm thankful to say! The responsibility has been too great for us both, this last week, while the collection grew, and we had to look after it. Now the whole lot is being sent to Christie's this afternoon, and the sale by auction will begin to-morrow. It's the event of the season, bar nothing! We hope to clear a quarter of a million if the bidding goes as we think. You must bring your bride, and make her buy something. If she's one of the right Annesleys, she must be aw'fly rich!"

"She is one of the right Annesleys," I managed to break in. "But, as I wrote you and Haslemere, she has always been known as Madeleine Odell. You and he – "

"Oh, never mind that!" Haslemere cut me short. "You have married her without consulting us. If you'd asked my advice, I should certainly – but we won't stir up the past! Let sleeping dogs lie, and bygones be bygones, and so on."

"Yes, we'll try and do our best for your wife," Violet added hastily, with an absent-minded eye. "When the sale is over, and we have time to breathe, you must bring her here, and – "

"You both seem to misunderstand the situation, although I thought I'd made things clear in my letter," I said. "You cruelly misjudged Maida. You believed lies about her, and put a public shame upon the innocent child. Do you think I'd ever bring her into my brother's house until he and his wife had begged her forgiveness, and atoned as far as in their power?"

"Good heavens, Jack, you must be mad!" Haslemere exclaimed. "I'd forgotten the affair until you revived it in my mind by announcing that you intended to marry a girl whose presentation I'd caused to be cancelled. Then I remembered. I acted at the time only as it was my duty to act, according to information received. An American acquaintance of Violet's – a widow of good birth whose word could not be doubted, told us a tragic story in which Miss Odell had played – well, to put it mildly, in consideration for you – had played an unfortunate part."

"The name of this American widow was Granville," I cut in, "and the tragedy was that of her son."

"It was. I see you know."

"I know the true version of the story. And I expect you and Violet to listen to it."

"We can't listen to anything further now, dear boy. We've more important – I beg your pardon – we've more pressing things to attend to," said Violet. "You've a right to your point of view, and we don't want to hurt your feelings. But I don't think you ought to want us to go against our convictions, unless to be civil, for your sake, and avoid scandal. We'll do our best, I told you; you must be satisfied with that. And really, we can't talk about this any longer, because just before you came we'd a telegram from Drivenny to say he and Combes and Blackburn will be here an hour earlier than the appointment. That will land them on us at any instant; and I don't care to be agitated, please!"

"Drivenny is the great jewel expert," Haslemere condescended to enlighten my amateurish intelligence. "Combes is the Scotland Yard man, as you know: and Blackburn is the famous detective from New York who's in London now. We don't understand why they come before their time, but no doubt they've an excellent reason and we shall hear it soon. You shall see them, if you like. You're interested in detectives."

"It sounds like a plot," I remarked, so angry with my brother and his wife that I found a mean pleasure in trying to upset them. "You'd better make jolly well sure that the right men come. As you are responsible for the jewels – "

Haslemere laughed. "You talk as if you were a detective in a boy's story paper! Not likely I should be such a fool as to hand the boodle over to men I didn't know by sight! They have been here before, in a bunch, Drivenny judging the jewels, the detectives – "

"My lord, the three gentlemen from London have arrived in a motor-car," announced a footman. "They wished to send their cards to your lordship." He presented a silver tray with three crude but business-like cards lying on it.

"Show them in at once," said Haslemere. He stood in front of a bookcase containing the works of George Eliot, Charles Dickens and Sir Walter Scott. I knew that bookcase well, and the secret which it so respectably hid. Behind, was the safe in which our family had for several generations placed such valuables as happened to be in the house. Haslemere slid back with a touch a little bronze ornament decorating a hinge on the glass door. In a tiny recess underneath was the head of a spring, which he pressed. The whole bookcase slipped along the wall and revealed the safe. Haslemere opened this, and took out a despatch box. While Violet received the box from his hands and laid it on a table near by, my brother closed the safe, and replaced the bookcase. A moment later, the three important visitors were ushered into the room, their names pronounced with respect by the servant: "Mr. Drivenny: Mr. Blackburn: Mr. Combes."

Haslemere met his guests with civility and honoured them consciously by presenting the trio to Violet. "This is my brother, back from a military mission to America," he indicated me casually, without troubling to mention my name.

The three men looked at me, and I at them. It struck me that they would not have been sorry to dispense with my presence. There was just a flash of something like chagrin which passed across the faces: the thin, aquiline face of Drivenny, spectacled, beetle-browed, clean-shaven: the square, puffy-cheeked face of Combes: the red, round face of the American, Blackburn. The flash vanished as quickly as it came, leaving the three middle-aged countenances impassive; but it made me wonder. Why should the jewel-expert and the two detectives object to the presence of another beside Lord and Lady Haslemere, when that other was a near relative of the family? Surely it was a trifling detail that I should witness the ceremony of their taking over the contents of the tin box?

Whatever their true feelings might have been, by tacit consent I was made to realise that I counted for no more in the scene than a fly on the wall, to Haslemere and Violet. No notice was taken of me while Haslemere unlocked the despatch box, and Violet – as the organiser of the scheme – took out the closely piled jewel-boxes it contained. This done, she proceeded to arrange them on the long oak table, cleared for the purpose. I stood in the background, as one by one the neatly numbered velvet, satin or Russia-leather cases were opened, and the description of the jewels within read aloud by Haslemere from a list. Each of the three new-comers had a duplicate list, and there was considerable talk before the cases were closed, and returned to the despatch box. Most of this talk came from Violet and Haslemere, both of whom were excited. As for Drivenny, Blackburn and Combes, it seemed to me that, in their hearts, they would gladly have hastened proceedings. They were polite but intensely business-like, and as soon as they could manage it the box was stuffed into a commonplace brown kitbag which the footman had brought in with the visitors. The three had motored from London to Hasletowers; and they smiled drily when Violet asked if they "thought there was danger of an attack on the way back."

"None whatever," replied the square-faced Combes. "We've made sure of that. There's too much at stake to run risks."

"Don't you remember I told you, Violet, what Mr. Combes said before?" Haslemere reminded his wife: "that the road between here and Christie's would swarm with plain clothes men in motors and on bicycles. If every gang of jewel-thieves in England or Europe were on this job, they'd have their trouble for their pains."

"I remember," Violet admitted, "but there's been such a lot about this affair in the papers! Thieves are so clever – "

"Not so clever as our friends," Haslemere admonished her, with one of his slightly patronising smiles for the jewel-expert and the detectives. "That's why they've got the upper hand; that's why we've asked their co-operation."

"Oh, of course!" exclaimed Violet. They all spent the next sixty seconds in compliments: and at the end of that time Mr. Combes announced that he and his companions had better be off. It would be well to complete the business. Mr. Drivenny asked Haslemere if he would care to go to Christie's in the car with them, as a matter of form, and Haslemere replied that he considered it unnecessary. The valuables, in such hands, were safe as in the Bank of England. The three men were invited to have drinks, but refused: and Haslemere himself accompanied them to their car. Violet and I stared at it from the window. It was an ordinary-looking grey car, with an ordinary-looking grey chauffeur.

When Haslemere came back to the library, I took up the subject which the arrival of the men had made me drop.

What did my brother and sister-in-law intend to do, to atone to my wife? Apparently they intended to do nothing: could not see why they should do anything: resented my assertion that they had done wrong in the past, and were not accustomed to being accused or called to account.

My heart had been set on obtaining poetic justice for Maida; but I knew she wouldn't wish me to plead. That would be for us both a new humiliation added to the old; an Ossa piled upon Pelion. Losing hope, I indulged myself by losing also my temper.

"Very well," I said. "Maida will be a success without help from you. As for me – "

"Mr. Drivenny, Mr. Blackburn and Mr. Combes," announced a footman – not the same who had made the announcement before.

"What – they've come back!" Violet and Haslemere exclaimed together. "Show them in."

Evidently something had gone wrong! Even I, in the midst of my rage, was pricked to curiosity.

The three men came in: thin, aquiline Drivenny, square, puffy-faced Combes, and red, round Blackburn. It was not more than half an hour since they had gone, yet already they had changed their clothes. They were all dressed differently, not excepting boots and hats: and Combes had a black kitbag in place of the brown one. Even in their faces, figures and bearings there was some subtle change.

"Good gracious! What's happened?" Violet gasped.

The men seemed surprised.

"We're a little before our time, my lady," said Combes, "but – "

Haslemere snatched the words from his mouth. "But you telegraphed. You came here – "

"We didn't telegraph, my lord," the detective respectfully contradicted him.

Violet gave a cry, and put her hands up to her head, staring at the trio so subtly altered. As before, I was a back-ground figure. I said nothing, but I thought a good deal. The trick jokingly suggested by me had actually been played.