Lord Stranleigh Abroad. Barr Robert
name.”
The stout man waved his hand in deprecation of unnecessary talk.
“I will come to the point at once,” he said, seating himself without any invitation.
“I shall be obliged if you do so.”
The new-comer’s eyes narrowed, and a threatening expression overspread his rather vicious face.
“I want to know, Lord Stranleigh, and I have a right to ask, why you gave a hundred pounds to my wife.”
“To your wife?” echoed Stranleigh in amazement.
“Yes. I have made a memorandum of the numbers, and here they are – two fifty-pound notes. Bank of England. Do you deny having given them to her?”
“I gave two fifty-pound notes to a young lady, whose name, I understood, was Trevelyan – a name which I also bear. She informed me, and somehow I believed her, that her purse containing steamship ticket and money, had been lost or stolen.”
A wry smile twisted the lips of the alleged husband.
“Oh, that’s the story is it? Would you be surprised if the young lady in question denied that in toto?”
“I should not be astonished at anything,” replied his lordship, “if you are in possession of the actual bank-notes I gave to her.”
“She describes your having taken these flimsies from a number of others you carry in your pocket. Would you mind reading me the number of others you carry in your pocket. Would you mind reading me the number of the next note in your collection?”
“Would you mind reading me the numbers on the notes you hold?” asked Stranleigh, in cool, even tones, making no sign of producing his own assets.
“Not at all,” replied the other; whereupon he read them. The notes were evidently two of a series, and the numbers differed only by a single unit. Stranleigh nonchalantly took out his pocket-book, and the intruder’s eyes glistened as he observed its bulk. Stranleigh glanced at the number on the top bank-note, and replaced his pocket-book, leaning back in his easy chair.
“You are quite right,” he said. “Those are the notes I gave to Miss Trevelyan.”
“I asked why.”
“I told you why.”
“That cock-and-bull story won’t go down,” said the other. “Even the richest men do not fling money about in such reckless fashion. They do it only for a favour given or a favour expected.”
“I dare say you are right. But come to the point, as you said you would.”
“Is that necessary?”
“I don’t know that it is. You want money – as large an amount as can be squeezed from a man supposedly wealthy. You use your good-looking wife as a decoy – ”
“You are casting aspersion on a lady quite unknown to you!” cried his visitor, with well-assumed indignation.
“Pardon me, you seem to be casting aspersion on her whom you say is your wife. I don’t know how these notes got into your hands, but I’d be willing to stake double the amount that the lady is quite innocent in the matter. She certainly is so far as I am concerned. If the lady is your wife, what is her name? She told me she was travelling under a different title from that written on the lost ticket.”
“I am not ashamed of my name, if you are of yours. My name is Branksome Poole.”
“Ah, then she is Mrs. Branksome Poole?”
“Naturally.”
Stranleigh reached out and drew towards him a passenger list. Running his eye down the column of cabin passengers, he saw there the names: “Mr. and Mrs. Branksome Poole.”
“Well, Mr. Poole, we come to what is the final question – how much?”
“If you give me the roll of Bank of England notes which you exhibited a moment ago, I shall say nothing further about the matter, and, understand me, there is no coercion about my request. You may accept or decline, just as you like. I admit that my wife and I do not get along well together, and although I consider I have a grievance against you, I am not assuming the injured husband rôle at all. If you decline, I shall make no scandal aboard ship, but will wait and take action against you the moment we arrive in New York.”
“Very considerate of you, Mr. Poole. I understand that in New York the fountains of justice are perfectly pure, and that the wronged are absolutely certain of obtaining redress. I congratulate you on your choice of a battle-ground. Of course, you haven’t the slightest thought of levying blackmail, but I prefer to spend my money on the best legal talent in America rather than trust any of it to you. It’s a mere case of obstinacy on my part. And now, if you will kindly take your departure, I will get on with my book; I am at a most interesting point.”
“I shall not take my departure,” said Poole doggedly, “until we have settled this matter.”
“The matter is settled.” Stranleigh touched an electric button. An inside door opened, and Ponderby entered, looking in amazement at his master’s visitor.
“Ponderby,” said Lord Stranleigh, “in future I desire you to keep this outer door locked, so that whoever wishes to see me may come through your room. Take a good look at this gentleman, and remember he is not to be allowed within my suite again on any pretext. Meanwhile, show him into the corridor. Take him through your room, and afterwards return and lock this other door.”
Then occurred an extraordinary thing. Ponderby, for the first time in his life, disobeyed his master’s instructions. Approaching the seated Poole, he said —
“Will you go quietly?”
“I’ll not go, quietly or otherwise,” answered the man stubbornly.
Ponderby opened the door by which Poole had entered, then, seizing him by the collar, lifted him, led him to the door, and pitched him out of the room across the corridor. Returning, he closed, locked, and bolted the door.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said the panting Ponderby to his amazed master, “but I dare not take him through my room. His wife is there. She appears to have followed him. Anyhow, she recognised his voice, and told me hurriedly why she came. I locked the door to the passage, for, as I heard her story, I felt it might be serious, and at least you ought to hear what she has to say before you acted. I hope you will excuse the liberty I have taken, my lord.”
“Ponderby, as I have often told you, you are a gem! I will go into your room, but you must remain there while I talk to this lady. No more tête-à-tête conversations with the unprotected for me.”
“I think she is honest, my lord, but in deep trouble.”
“I am glad to have my opinion corroborated by so good a judge of character as yourself, Ponderby.”
They went together to the valet’s sitting-room, and there sat the woman, with her dark head bowed upon arms outstretched along the table, her shoulders shaking. She was plainly on the verge of hysterics, if, indeed, she had not already crossed the boundary line.
“Here is Mr. Trevelyan, madam,” said Ponderby. “You wanted to speak with him.”
She raised her head, dabbed her wet eyes nervously with her handkerchief, and made an effort to pull herself together. When she spoke, it was with rapid utterance, reeling off what she had to say as if it were a task learned by rote.
“I have at last come to the end of my tether, and to-night, if there is no prospect of freedom, I shall destroy myself. Before this I have often thought of suicide, but I am a cowardly person, and cling to life. Five years ago my father went out to America bent on a motor tour; he took me with him. Among other servants he engaged Charles Branksome, who had proved himself an expert chauffeur. He was English, and came to us well recommended. He intimated that he was of good family, but had his living to earn. He was handsome then, and had a most ingratiating manner. The person who called on you to-night bears little resemblance to the Branksome of five years ago. I had often gone motoring with him while