Miss Ferriby's Clients

  Chapter 18

  For a few moments after the certainty had forced itself into his mind that he had done the worst thing possible for himself, at the very time when he had supposed himself to be doing the best, he could scarcely compose his mind to think clearly.

  Then he tried to remember just what he had said to the two men whom he had taken for detectives, and the more he recollected of that interview, the gloomier did his own prospects seem to him.

  He was at that moment not at all sure that the gang would hold back from murder. Why should they? If they were capable, as they had proved themselves, of carrying on a successful career of crime without drawing upon themselves the attention of the authorities, why should they draw the line at committing a murder, which they would certainly find means to conceal just as they had concealed other crimes before?

  He felt cold with horror when he thought of the evil nature which Miss Ferriby's philanthropy was a cloak for, when he considered all that he had seen and heard, and remembered the ease with which she had hoodwinked him, as well as the rest of the people with whom her charitable works brought her in contact.

  It was true that not only his brother, but the Ashcots, knew where he had gone that morning, and would be on the alert for his return. But would not Miss Ferriby and her associates and accomplices be fully equal to the task of inventing and upholding some story to account for his disappearance?

  The more he thought about it, the more sure did he feel that to such able rogues a difficulty of that sort would seem but a trifle, and the less did he feel able to count upon the assistance of his own friends.

  As these terrible thoughts chased each other through his mind, he kept watch with painful intentness upon the group outside the house.

  For a long time -- or what seemed so to him -- Box and the two men whom he had mistaken for detectives, talked together at a distance of some yards from the house, while no sound reached his ears either from them or from the woman, whom he supposed to be still out of his sight under the window.

  Then a voice said: "Cockett!" and the three men turned in the same direction at once. This was to Welton's mind conclusive evidence that they were all friends. When a moment later Cockett, still dressed in clothes which made him look like a footman out of livery, approached them at a sauntering pace, with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette in his mouth, Welton was quite confirmed in this opinion.

  "Well, how goes it? Have you got him?" asked Cockett, as he came up to the three men who began to move towards the spot under the wall where the maid was waiting.

  "Yes, we've got him right enough," replied the man who had posed as the chief of the two detectives, with an easy nod. "He's in there,"

  He nodded in the direction of the window without so much as giving a good look in that direction, and Welton was rather surprised and still more perturbed by the fact that nobody appeared to think it worth while to take particular note of the window, so that no one noticed in the twilight that it had been pushed open.

  He reflected with dismay that they did not think the point of any consequence, as they looked upon the occupant of the little room with the iron door and the barred window as a doomed man.

  What did they intend to do with him? This gathering of the forces of the establishment was such a new and strange thing, so contrary to the ordinary habits of the household where the servants were usually hidden away in the secluded wing, that Welton knew there was mischief brewing.

  Cockett laughed under his breath at the news of the capture. "I had my work cut out for me by the mischief-making sneak," he said. "The fellow saw me on the night of the dance at the Ospringes, and what should he do but go and give Mr. Ospringe next morning a warning that there was a dangerous person among his servants."

  "Ah, his old games!" cried the woman's voice.

  Cockett, who was within sight of Welton at the window, nodded. "Yes. Well, old Ospringe is a shrewd fellow, so he sifted out the men of the household and fixed upon me and another one as the likeliest to be meant by this fellow's warning. And he sent for us and asked us questions, and then he asked me if I had ever been known by any other name, and I said yes, and that my former master thought the name too farcical."

  "Good," said one of the other men.

  "And I said that I had been in the service of a charitable lady named Ferriby, who did tell fortunes, but who did nothing worse than that. And that there was a secretary there who made mischief with her for all the servants, saying that we were thieves."

  "Good again."

  "And I flattered myself I turned the tables on the gentleman, and that it is he, and not I, who fell in old Ospringe's estimation when I had made things clear to him."

  "You don't think he has any suspicion?"

  "None. At least he didn't give me the sack, as I should think he would have done if he had suspected anything wrong. But we had better put off the affair at his place for a day or two, I think. If it were to come off now, he might wake up again, and think there was something in this Keynes' warning after all."

  Box uttered a short word expressive of his annoyance at this interference with their plans. "He's a born nuisance, that chap," he said savagely. "And what the old lady can see in him is more than I can make out."

  Cockett sniggered. "He put your nose out of joint, Box, didn't he?" he said.

  The two other men and the maid joined in the laugh. All kept their merriment under their breath, however, so that Welton would scarcely have heard any sound if the window had still been shut.

  But it appeared to enter the maid's mind that they ought to be cautious. "Take care," she said. "He's not far off, you know. You don't want him to hear you."

  The words which fell from the lips of Box in answer to these, however, made Welton's blood run cold. "What does it matter if he does hear?" asked he coolly. "Now he's safe in there, nothing matters. He can hear what he likes, and see what he can, and welcome."

  There was a sort of murmur at this, and Welton could not be quite sure what the murmur meant: whether it was wholly satisfied and ferocious, or partly condemnatory, or even sympathetic on the part of the woman. He thought, however, when she spoke that she could not be as strong in condemnation as the rest. Indeed she had spoken up for him, if in rather a weak and modified way, already.

  "You're not going to be too hard with him, are you?" she said. "At least, I don't suppose you can be, for Miss F. wouldn't stand it."

  The man who had posed as the second detective laughed. "My dear, you don't know your own sex if you think that," he said. "There's no man in the world half so spiteful as a woman who is in love with a man, or who thinks she is, and who finds that he doesn't want to have anything to do with her. Why, a tiger's an angel compared to Miss F. when she's put out. And if this cub hasn't managed to put her out by the way he's carried on, well, all I can say is that he's tried jolly hard!"

  The maid's voice was more anxious than before. "Well, how could she expect him to like her, in that way, I mean?"

  The men tried to silence her. "You'd better keep a watch on your own tongue, my dear," said Cockett jeeringly. "All women think themselves beauties, and if they feel a doubt about it, they don't like that doubt put into words."

  Welton was feeling sick and almost faint with the combined strain of listening to every word, and the physical effort of hanging on to the window ledge. But he heard one more speech from the woman before, shaking and disheartened, he dropped down to the floor.

  "Well, whatever she feels about him, I don't see how she could have the heart to serve him the way you all served that poor Browne. His ghost would rise up and torment you all if you were to treat him the same way. And more than that, none of us women would give you any help over it, and so I tell you!"

  Welton stumbled down to the floor as she uttered the last word, and he supposed by the silence that followed that they had awakened to the fact that they might be overheard.

  For a few moments he lay upon the floor, his hands sore and trem
bling, his whole frame suffering from the severe double strain of suspense and physical fatigue. Before he got up, however, he noticed that there were coming up through the floor certain faint, hollow sounds, as if there were something going on underneath.

  He put his ear close to the carpet.

  Whether it was the sound of voices and footsteps, or that of running water, he could not be sure, but there was a continuous murmur, not loud, but steady and monotonous, muffled by the carpet and rugs but unmistakable.

  Welton crawled over the floor in all directions to ascertain the exact spot where the noise was loudest, and he found that it was under the leopard skin rug, which was stretched on the floor at a little distance from the chair upon which he had mounted to the window.

  He pulled up one end of the rug and found that there was no carpet underneath it, nothing but bare boards which had once been polished, but which were now scratched and shabby.

  He had only the firelight to help him in his search, but it was sufficient for his purpose. He had just ascertained that the boards at this spot were loose, when he heard a key inserted in the lock of the door on the outer side.

  Springing to his feet, he hastily replaced the leopard skin rug, and threw himself into the armchair by the fire.

  The next moment the door opened, and Miss Ferriby came in.

  Welton guessed that she was either afraid to meet him or, which was more probable, her accomplices were afraid to leave her unwatched; for he perceived in the long drawing room behind her a figure he thought he recognized as that of Box.

  She came in quickly, shut the door behind her, but did not attempt to lock it; which pointed again, as Welton thought, to the fact that she knew she had able arms and quick ears outside.

  He rose quietly, without uttering a word as she entered.

  She peered at him in the darkness, which was now almost complete. Then she stepped back, and finding behind the tapestry the button, which Welton would never have expected to find at that particular spot in the middle of the wall, she turned on the electric light in the lamp that hung by silver chains from the ceiling.

  The change from darkness to light made Welton blink.

  Then he saw that she was very pale, and that the great grey eyes had a haggard and worn look, while the heavy jaw looked even more masculine than before, now that the face seemed to have suddenly aged.

  She came close to him as he stood upon the leopard skin which lay in front of the fireplace. "You look worried," she said, in a broken, hoarse voice. "What is the matter with you?"

  He laughed shortly. "I have been wondering," he said coldly, "why I have been kept locked in here."

  Her face changed. "No, you have not been wondering," she said sharply. "You knew very well why it was. You couldn't suppose that you would be allowed to do what you have done without any notice being taken of it."

  "What have I tried to do?"

  "You tried to give us up to the police. I know all about it, as you may suppose. I know that in gratitude for my offering you all a woman has to offer, you have shown yourself ungrateful. You have ferreted for what you could find against us, and only this morning you gave evidence, as you supposed, to the police. It was owing to our wits being better than yours that you told what you had to say to us instead of to the police."

  Welton said nothing at all in answer to this, but stood before the fire with his head bent, listening attentively. His silence irritated her.

  "Well," she said at last, "can you justify yourself for trying to betray the people who have been kind to you?"

  He raised his head. "What I did," he said simply, "was just what anybody else in my position would have done. I tried to save the people I knew, the people I've lived among, from being robbed."

  "You've lived among us too," retorted Miss Ferriby sharply.

  "Only for a few days," he said. "And during those few days I've already tried to get away. You will admit that, I think."

  Her face grew heavy and sullen. "Oh, yes, you've been anxious enough to get away," she said snappishly, at last. "But I should have thought, as you'd been well treated here, you would have considered yourself bound to show us -- or me at least -- some consideration."

  "Miss Ferriby, what can you expect of me after last night?" he asked. "You can't have forgotten that you tore open my letter and behaved as no woman should behave. What could you expect but that I should warn my friends, and that I should inform the police of what I know concerning a public danger?"

  Miss Ferriby moved impatiently. "What does a public danger matter compared to your private interest?" she said. "If you had thrown in your lot with us, I would have made your fortune. What will your other friends do for you? What will the police do for you? Nothing, nothing. You have behaved like a fool, Welton. You have grasped at the shadow and thrown away the substance. And all for what? For a whim, a wicked, revengeful whim. You wanted to see us all in the dock, to see some of us hanged. And why? You had no reason, no reason whatever."

  Welton was appalled. Wanted to see them hanged, she said. Now there was only one crime for which the punishment was hanging, and this was the first confirmation he had heard of his strong suspicion that the gang had not stopped at robbery.

  It was some moments before he could answer. Indeed, he did not know very well what to say. Self-interest was evidently the only spring of action recognized by these people, and for him to talk of honour and his duty to society would have been waste of breath.

  However, one definite grievance came into his mind. "Have you forgotten the lies you told me about my father?" he asked, in an impressive voice.

  Miss Ferriby quailed under the unexpected accusation. Then she made an impatient gesture. "Well, I'll admit they were lies," she said. "I've never seen your father. I know nothing about him but what my people found out for me. But I loved you. I had to say something which would keep you near me, and so I confess I invented the story of his being still alive and a friend of mine. I know it was what you people call wrong. But since the motive was love for you, you might forgive me. But you are hard, unforgiving, Welton. You have no heart, or you wouldn't treat me as you've done."

  Then this unprincipled woman, whose crimes sat lightly upon her, and who evidently saw only in herself a sweet-natured martyr to unrequited love, sobbed and buried her face in her hands.

  Welton was amazed as well as shocked. "I don't think I've done anything to be ashamed of," he said, in a very quiet voice. "I don't see how I could have acted otherwise than as I've done."

  She snatched her hands away from her face. "And do you know the penalty? Do you know what you've brought upon yourself by your high principles and your scruples?" she asked, with sudden ferocity. "Have you any idea of what you will have to go through in return for your treachery?"

  "I have committed no treachery. I never professed to have joined your ... your society. I never even wished to remain in your employment."

  Miss Ferriby, instead of resenting this speech, drew a little nearer to him and sighed. "I didn't ask you to do that. You know what I wished you to do. Even now, Welton, it's not too late. If you will only swear to betray nothing ... if you will only ... only be nice ... be kind to me," and she looked up into his face with an expression which, if he had not loathed her for her baseness, would have moved him by its evident sincerity of feeling. Her voice dropped still lower, "... I'll save you yet."

  But even as she spoke, Welton heard a low sound of mocking laughter from the window, and turning quickly, remembering too late that he had left it open, he saw and Miss Ferriby saw, that there were two faces close enough to the bars outside to see whatever went on inside, and to hear all that was said.

  And at the same moment they both heard the key turned in the lock of the door. Welton was no longer a lonely prisoner. Box had taken the opportunity to imprison together both the mistress who had thrown him over for a new face, and the owner of the new face himself.