14 Murder Mysteries in One Volume. Louis Tracy
he scrutinized both in the flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass the financial potentate with indifference.
Alas, that a reputation, once built, should be destroyed!
"I was mistook, sir," he reported to Grant later. "There's another 'tec about, but 'e ain't the chap I met last night. They say this other bloke is rollin' in money, an' buyin' hosses right an' left."
"Then he'll soon be rolling in the mud, and have no money," put in Hart.
"Who is he?" inquired Grant carelessly.
"A Mr. Franklin, from South America, sir."
Grant and Hart exchanged glances. Curiously enough, Hart remained silent till Bates had gone.
"I must look this joker up, Jack," he said then. "To me the mere mention of South America is like Mother Gary's chickens to a sailor, a harbinger of storm."
But Hart consumed Tomlin's best brew to no purpose—in so far as seeing Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying a famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in troubled waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort.
He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were there, the telegraphist being out.
"Good day, everybody," he cried cheerfully. "Grant wants to know, Mr. Martin, if you and Miss Doris will come and dine with him, us, this evening at 7.30?"
The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris laughed, and blushed a little.
"This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant's, dad," she explained. "I'm afraid we cannot accept the invitation. We are so busy."
"The worst of excuses," said Hart.
"But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegram at that hour."
"What's his name?"
"Mr. Peters."
"Great Scott! Jimmie Peters here? I'll soon put a stopper on him. He'll come, too—jumping. See if he doesn't. Is it a bargain? Short telegram at six. Dinner for five at 7.30. Come, now, Mr. Martin. It's up to you. I can see 'Yes' in Doris's eye. Over the port—most delectable, I assure you—I'll give full details of the peculiar case of a man in Worcestershire whose crop of gooseberries increased fourfold after starting an apiary. And what does it matter if you do lose a queen or two in June? The drones will attend to that trifle.... It's a fixture, eh? Where's Peters? In the Pull and Push? I'll rout him out."
The whirlwind subsided, but quickly materialized again.
"Peters nearly fell on his knees and wept with joy," announced Hart. "He believes he was given a bull steak for luncheon. He pledges himself to have only five hundred words on the wire at five o'clock."
Meanwhile, father and daughter had decided that there was no valid reason why they should not dine with Mr. Grant. Martin already regretted his aloofness on the day of the inquest, though, truth to tell, Hart's expert knowledge of bee-culture was the determining factor. On her part, Doris was delighted. Her world had gone awry that week, and this small festivity might right it.
Not one word of the improvised dinner-party did Hart confide to Grant. He informed the only indispensable person, Mrs. Bates, and left it at that. Grant, a restless being these days, took him for another long walk. It chanced that their road home led down the high-street. The hour was a quarter past seven, and Peters hailed them.
Hart introduced the journalist, saying casually:
"Jimmie is coming to dinner, Jack."
"Delighted," said Grant, of course.
Peters looked slightly surprised, but passed no comment. Then Doris and her father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to Grant's secret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in company. When the Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge, Grant began to suspect his friend.
"Wally," he managed to whisper, "what game have you been playing?"
"Aren't you satisfied?" murmured Hart. "Sdeath, as they used to say in the Surrey Theater, you're as bad as Furshaw!"
There were others far more perturbed by that odd conjunction of diners than the puzzled host, who merely expected Mrs. Bates to belabor him with a rolling pin. Mr. Siddle, for instance, had just closed his shop when the five met. That is to say, the dark blue blind was drawn, but the door was ajar. He came to the threshold, and watched the party until the bridge was neared, when one of them, looking back, might have seen him, so he stepped discreetly inside. Being a non-interfering, self-contained man, he seemed to be rather irresolute. But that condition passed quickly. Leaning over the counter, he secured a hat and a pair of field-glasses, and went out. He, too, knew of Mrs. Jefferson's weakness for shopping in Knoleworth, and that good lady had gone there again. Her train was due in ten minutes. A wicket gate led to a narrow passage communicating with the back door of her residence. He entered boldly, reached the garden, and hurried to the angle on the edge of the cliff next to the Martins' strip of ground.
Yes, a spacious dinner-table was laid at The Hollies. Doris, Mr. Martin, and Peters soon strolled out on to the lawn. The pedestrians had obviously gone upstairs to wash after their tramp.
Mr. Siddle rather forgot himself. He stared so long and earnestly through the field-glasses that he ran full tilt into Mrs. Jefferson and maid before regaining the high-street. But the chemist was a ready man. He lifted his hat with an inquiring smile.
"Didn't you say you wanted some anti-arthritic salts early in the week?" he asked.
"Yes," said Mrs. Jefferson, "but I got some to-day in Knoleworth, thank you."
"Well, I was just making up an indent, and might as well include your specific if you really needed it."
Which was kind and thoughtful of Mr. Siddle, but not quite true, though it fully explained his presence at Mrs. Jefferson's gate.
Mr. Franklin, escorting a fragrant Havana up the hill (he had traveled by the same train) saw the meeting, and, being aware of Mrs. Jefferson's frugal habits, since Furneaux had omitted no item of his movements in Steynholme, remembered it later during the nightly gathering in the inn.
Elkin greeted Mr. Franklin respectfully when the great man joined the circle.
"Did you see anything worth while at Knoleworth, sir?" he said.
"No. I was unlucky. All the principals were at a race meeting."
"By gum! That's right. It's Gatwick today. Dash! I might have saved you a journey."
"Oh, it doesn't matter. In my business there is no call for hurry."
Elkin looked around.
"Where's our friend, the 'tec?" he said.
"I think you're wrong about 'im, meanin' Mr. Peters," said Tomlin. "'E's 'ere for a noospaper, not for the Yard."
"That's his blarney," smirked Elkin. "A detective doesn't go about telling everybody what he is."
"Whatever his profession may be," put in Siddle's quiet voice, "I happen to know that he is dining with Mr. Grant. So are Mr. Martin and Doris. By mere chance I called at Mrs. Jefferson's. I went to the back door, and, finding it closed, looked into the garden. From there I couldn't help seeing the assembly on the lawn of The Hollies."
"Dining at Grant's?" shouted Elkin in a fury. "Well, I'm—"
"'Ush, Fred!" expostulated Tomlin with a shocked glance at Mr. Franklin. "Wot's wrong wi' a bit of grub, ony ways? A very nice-spoken young gent kem 'ere twiced, an' axed for Mr. Peters the second time. He's a friend o' Mr. Grant's, I reckon."
"What's wrong?" stormed the horse-dealer. "Why, everything's wrong! The bounder ought to be in jail instead of giving dinner-parties. Imagine Doris eating in that house!"
"Ay! Sweetbreads an' saddle o' lamb," interjected Hobbs with the air of one imparting a secret.
Elkin was