CHAPTER XXX

MRS. LAMB IN SEARCH OF ADVICE

On the evening of that same day, at the door of Mr. Isaac Luker's little house in that _cul-de-sac_ near Stamford Street, some one knocked, in a rather unusual manner, as if after a prescribed fashion, then whistled half-a-dozen sharp, shrill notes up the scale. This performance was repeated thrice before anything happened to show that it had attracted attention within. Then a window was opened above; the solicitor's head came out.

"Who's there?"

A feminine voice replied--

"It's me--Isabel. I want to speak to you. Don't keep me waiting out here. Come down! let me in at once."

There was a brief pause before the answer came, as if the man of law was endeavouring to see as much of his visitor as he could.

"Not much--I won't have you in this house; don't you think it; I'm not a fool. If you won't go without a fuss I'll soon get those who'll shift you."

"You are a fool. I don't want money from you, or anything of that kind. I want to tell you something--that's all."

"Then tell it me from where you are; I'm listening."

Mrs. Lamb's voice dropped, so that her words were only just audible to the man above.

"Cuthbert Grahame's money's found."

Another pause, possibly of doubt.

"Is that a lie?"

"I'll swear it isn't; it's as true as I stand here."

"Where is it?"

"It's in his house"

"His house? What house? I didn't know he'd got a house."

"His house at Pitmuir--where I met him--where he died."

"How do you know it's there?"

"I'll tell you all about it if you'll let me in."

"You'll tell me before I let you in."

"Margaret Wallace--that girl--you know--she came this morning and told me it was there."

"I don't believe it. Why should she, of all people, come and tell you a thing like that? Tell that for a tale."

"She did; I swear she did. The money's there--I know just where--a quarter of a million at least."

"A quarter of a million?"

"At least! If I was there I'd have it in my hands inside two minutes. I'm as sure of it as I am that I'm alive. Don't be silly; let me in, and let's talk where we can be alone. I'm on the square--I swear it. I don't want anything from you; I just want your advice--that's all."

There was another pause.

"Mrs. Lamb, I've got a telephone installed in these premises. I'm going to telephone to a friend that you're here; I'm going to ask him to step round in a few minutes. If, when he comes, you've been making trouble, there'll be trouble for you--you'll be the sorriest woman that ever lived. I give you my word; when I give you my word on a point like that you know it goes. You wait there until I'm ready."

The head was withdrawn; the window closed; the lady waited, impatiently enough. Her patience was sufficiently tried. It seemed to her that she waited an hour; she certainly did wait twenty minutes. More than once she was on the point of sounding a loud rat-a-tat on the knocker by way of a little reminder. It was only with an effort she restrained herself, being conscious that possibly Mr. Luker's decision still hung in the balance, and that it needed but little to turn the balance against her. She had just arrived at a final conclusion that he had played her false, or, at any rate, intended to ignore her existence, when the door was opened, on the chain.

"I've telephoned to my friend; he's coming; so, if you're in an argumentative frame of mind, you'd better take my strong advice and stay outside. No argument will be allowed in here."

It seemed to Mrs. Lamb that the wary Mr. Luker was carrying his wariness almost a trifle too far. She was unable to altogether conceal that this was her feeling.

"Bless the man! I don't want to argue! I just want to explain exactly how the matter stands. When you've opened that door you'll find that I mean just what I say, neither more nor less."

"My friend, when he arrives, will see that you don't mean more; you can take my word for that. Come inside!"

Mr. Luker removed the chain; the lady entered; he led the way to a room on the ground floor at the back. It was much better furnished than the exterior of the house, and its occupant's appearance, might have led one to expect. A telephone, on its bracket against the wall, was one of the most prominent objects the room contained. Mr. Luker called her attention to its presence.

"You see? I'm not so much alone here as you might think; I'm in constant communication with my friend; and as he'll be here very shortly, perhaps you'll say what you have to say as quickly as you can."

"It'd have been said already, if you hadn't kept me cooling my heels outside while you were playing the fool in here with your telephone."

As clearly and succinctly as possible--she could keep to the point when she liked--Mrs. Lamb told her tale, exhibiting Margaret's drawings, partly by way of corroboration and partly to elucidate certain points which needed explanation.

"And you believe it?"

"Believe that the money's inside that mantelpiece? I'm as certain of it as I am that I see you."

"What makes you so sure?"

"His will was hidden in one corner of the room. All along I've felt sure that there were more hiding-places in it than one. I shouldn't be surprised if there were half a dozen. It's just the kind of room, and he's just the kind of man. As for the mantelpiece, I've been bothered all along by a feeling that there was something about it which I ought to understand, and didn't. Now I know what it is. Cuthbert Grahame's money's there as certainly as you are here. I tell you he was just the sort of curiosity--he wasn't a man when I knew him!--who might be expected to play a trick like that."

"But why should the girl come and tell you the tale when it was to her advantage to keep it dark--especially from you?"

"That's more than I can say. I know she's a white-faced little devil, and that I hate her. I lay she didn't do it out of any love for me."

"That, I think, we may take for granted--which makes the puzzle more. It looks to me as if she expects you to walk headlong into a trap which she has carefully baited."

"Curse her traps! What do I care for her traps? She can't set one which will catch me. The money's there, and the money's mine--and I'll get it."

"Then get it. It will be useful to you just now, even if there's less than a quarter of a million."

"Useful!--my God!--useful!" Stretching out her arms on either side, she drew a long breath. "But, Luker--that's the mischief!--it's in his room; the one in which he died."

"Well; you've told me that already--what of it?"

"What of it? Why!"--she laughed; there was something in the sound of her laughter which caused him to bunch himself together, as if touched by a sudden chill--"I daren't go in it."

"You daren't go in it? What do you mean? The house is your own, isn't it? What's there to be afraid of? Who's to keep you out?"

"That's it!--I don't know! I don't know! Luker, there's something come over me lately; I didn't used to be troubled with nerves."

"You didn't."

"I never was afraid of anything--or any one."

"You weren't; you've always had the devil's own courage since you were a girl."

"There's been nothing I daren't do."

"It would have been better for you, perhaps, if there had been something; there's such a thing as daring to do too much."

"You think so? Perhaps that's it; perhaps I have dared to do too much."

"As to that you know better than I do; I'm not your father confessor, nor wish to be. The Lord forbid!"

"I don't know how it is, but, lately, I've gone all to pieces. I'm afraid of all sorts of things. When that girl came this morning I was afraid of her; she frightened me out of my senses. I thought she was a ghost; I couldn't have moved or spoken to save my life; I listened to her like a stuck pig. Luker, things have upset me more than I thought anything could have done. I'm--I'm all a bundle of nerves."

"It's that stuff you've been drinking."

"Stuff? What stuff?"

"When I was at your place yesterday I saw a decanter lying on the table; some of the contents had been spilled. I dipped my finger into the stuff and tasted it. It was ether. When women of your temperament take to drinking ether, that's an end of them."

"But I've got to drink it!--I've got to! I never touch it unless I'm forced! Luker, if I didn't, sometimes, I should go stark, staring mad."

"Then you'll go stark, staring mad. Ether's a royal road to madness for such as you. Better stick to gin."

"Gin!--gin's no good; a barrelful would be no good when I'm like that."

"I see--that's the point you've got to." He was eyeing her intently. "Is there any particular reason why you should be afraid of going into the room where that man died?"

She became instantly conscious of the keenness of his scrutiny, perceiving that in it there was a new quality. Her manner changed.

"Any particular reason? No; there's only the general reason that I'm all mops and brooms; that I start at shadows. Besides, I'm going into it, and you're going with me."

"Am I? That's news."

"Luker, if you'll come with me to Pitmuir, and stick to me while I find Cuthbert Grahame's money, I'll give you five hundred pounds."

"Hard cash?--before we start?"

"I can't do that; you know I can't do that. But, Luker, I'll give you a thousand when I've found the money. I'll set down my promise in writing; give you any sort of undertaking you like."

"Yes; but suppose you don't find the money; suppose what that girl told you is nothing but a cock-and-bull story? I tell you plainly that I can't make head or tail of the whole business. I've no faith in the girl, or her story, or her motives. And I'm pretty sure that she has no intention, under any circumstances or on any conditions, of presenting you with Cuthbert Grahame's fortune, or of putting you in the way of getting it for yourself either."

"But I know it's there. I can't explain to you how I know it--I don't understand myself--but I do. And though it seems queer, at the back of my head I've known it all the time. Luker, as sure as you are living, that money's there."

"Then, in that case, instead of going yourself, why not instruct some one on the spot to examine the premises on your behalf; to pull down this famous mantelpiece, or the whole house if necessary, and report the results to you?"

"Who shall I instruct? Before they move they'll perhaps want money--I expect my position is pretty generally known--and where am I to find it? In any case, they'll take their own time, and time is precious. Besides, there are enough fingers meddling in my affairs already. And who am I to trust? I don't want any one except myself to know how much I find. To speak of nothing else, shouldn't I have to pay succession duty if it were known?"

"I suppose you would. Isabel, you're a curious person; a little too fond, perhaps, of doing things for yourself; yet, in delicate matters--in very delicate matters--it's a fault on the right side. How do you know you can trust me?"

"You and I have seen too much of each other for me not to know when, and where, and how far I can trust you. I'm not afraid."

"You're right; you needn't be. I don't think I am likely to round on you. But, on the other hand, frankly, I'm afraid of you."

"Nor need you be afraid of me. It's only when I'm upset that--that I'm trying--that's all."

"Even if it is all, it's a pretty big all."

"About the thousand pounds. As I said, I'll give you any sort of bond you like, undertaking, if you stick to me, to pay you the moment I get the money in my hands. Anyhow you know that you'll be safe. It's not bad pay for what I'm asking you to do."

"I don't say it is. When do you propose to start?"

"To-morrow morning, by the ten o'clock train from King's Cross. I planned it all out before I came."

"That's quick work."

"It'll have to be quick work. If I don't have money, and plenty of it, within forty-eight hours, I'm undone."

"I understand. By the way, I presume that you're prepared to pay all out-of-pocket expenses, for both parties, as we go on. For instance, I shall require you to hand me a return ticket to wherever we are going before I set foot inside the train. I'm a poor man, although you sometimes amuse yourself by pretending to think otherwise, and I, at any rate, can afford to take no risks."

"You shall have your ticket, and I'll pay everything. I've the money to do it--but it's about as much as I have got."

"Ah, but by to-morrow, about this time, you'll be more than a millionaire. I've always understood that that wonderful quarter of a million of Mr. Grahame's produced, on an average, more than twenty per cent.; so that if you had a million, averaging a modest three per cent.--and some millionaires would be glad to get as much--your income would be less. Then there are the arrears, which have been accruing! Think of the arrears, Mrs. Lamb--on a quarter of a million, at twenty per cent.! Now if you will sit down here, and will give me, on this sheet of paper, that little undertaking you mentioned, I think that, on my part, I can undertake to accompany you on your little trip to the north."