CHAPTER XXVI.

AN ARGUMENT.

Despard sat in the den, as he called it, of his new chambers in Duke Street, London. A shaded electric light shone on his desk. A mass of papers and a private account-book lay before him, a half-smoked Havana cigar was in his mouth, a whisky and soda by his side.

The gold travelling clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour. Nine o'clock. Despard pushed back his chair, took a pull at his cigar, sighed, and then, looking at the clock, frowned. Evidently the visitor he expected was not coming.

Nearly two years had passed since he successfully floated the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm. For several months his little venture had threatened to sink. It had been more difficult than he supposed to get people to believe in radium. The public wanted something they could see and handle for their money. Radium was a little too elusive.

But Despard, for all his faults, was a fighter, especially when he had something for which to fight. He had got two or three people with a small amount of money to believe in him--and in radium. Some of those people had influence. So, after many weary months of working up a slow but steady boom, and by a brilliant system of advertisement, the company had been successfully floated and launched, and the public had come in at first slowly and hesitatingly, but eventually with a rush which was accelerated by an unexpected boom on the Stock Exchange.

The one-pound shares in the radium mine, fully paid up, mounted from five shillings to par. From this they suddenly boomed to twenty-five shillings, and then gradually and steadily rose until they were quoted at three pound ten. Sir Reginald Crichton and one or two other members of the original syndicate, though honestly believing in the venture, were surprised. So far, no radium had been extracted from the pitch-blende--though the reports were excellent and full of encouragement. But Crichton expected he would have to wait some years before he got a return for his money.

Now, if he chose to sell his shares he knew he might realise a small fortune. But Despard begged him to wait.

"They'll touch five pounds yet," he said.

His nerve, which had never deserted him during the early days of the venture, when people had frankly laughed at the idea of radium being discovered in Devonshire, when there was real danger of utter failure, and rumours of fraud echoed in his ears, now began to fail him.

He knew he could trust old Dale, Sir Reginald Crichton, and a few other men who had been nothing more nor less than his dupes. It was his friends in the City, sharks like himself, whom he could not trust. Men who had helped finance the company and boom it; the men who had forced up the price of shares originally when they were worth as many pennies as they were quoted in shillings.

Gold had been the god at whose shrine Despard had always worshipped. For he believed that money could purchase anything, even the love of woman.

Even the love of the woman he had grown to desire more than any other, more than anything else in the world, save wealth--Marjorie Dale.

The frown on Despard's face deepened as the clock ticked cheerfully on and the hands slowly but inexorably pointed to the fleeting minutes. In spite of all opposition, in spite of all the influence he had been able to bring to bear on her father and on Jim's father; in spite of threats and promises she still refused to listen to him or to consider him for one moment as her lover or her future husband.

The announcement of her engagement to Lieutenant James Crichton had been made, only to be contradicted by Sir Reginald. Her father had sent her to London to stay with some wealthy friends they had made--through Sir Reginald's introduction and the fame the mine had brought them. He had hoped that a season in the great city would help her to forget and make her more amenable to his wishes.

But he did not know his own daughter. It had always been his boast that when a Dale gave his word he never went back on it. Perhaps he forgot that though his daughter was a woman she nevertheless inherited the same proud, obstinate spirit that he and his forefathers possessed.

He had almost given her up as hopeless, had frankly told Sir Reginald he could do no more.

Society has a conveniently short memory on occasions, and those members of it, who knew the history of the Dales and the story of the convict brother who had escaped from Dartmoor and successfully disappeared from the country, quickly forgot all about him. Those who had not heard asked no questions. Miss Dale was young, rich, beautiful, and apparently well-bred. That was enough. Even Sir Reginald was in his heart of hearts beginning to relent, though, outwardly, he showed no signs of it.

But Despard knew this, and it encouraged him to play his last card. A desperate one and a dangerous.

That was why he now glanced impatiently at the clock and the frown on his forehead gradually deepened. That morning he had commenced to unload--to sell his shares in the radium mine. He had gone to work cautiously so as not to alarm the public. It was important that no one should know that he was clearing out of the venture until he had realised every penny he possibly could. As soon as the shares began to drop he knew there would be a rush by those behind the scenes to sell. And eventually there would be a scramble by the public to get rid of the shares that he believed were not worth seventy pence, much less seventy shillings. By that time Despard hoped to be out of the country--travelling for his health! And he fondly dreamed that Marjorie Dale would be with him, too. As his wife--or, if she proved obstinate, he intended to try what force would do.

He had made up his mind that Jim Crichton should never have her. For he hated him. And he had good reason. Jim had kept his promise to Ruby Strode and had left no stone unturned to try and force Despard to prove Rupert Dale's innocence.

But it had been of no avail. Sir Reginald's suspicions of Despard had been lulled to rest again. Money talks, and it had successfully lured the elder man into the comfortable belief that things were best left as they were, and that Rupert Dale, having escaped and apparently been forgotten, his memory was best left in oblivion.

The clock on the mantelshelf struck the half-hour. Despard closed his books, folded up his papers and put them away. He had realised a tidy little fortune, and for the moment the frown disappeared and he gave a sigh of satisfaction. To-morrow, he decided, he would warn Sir Reginald to sell; but if Marjorie Dale did not come to his rooms that evening in reply to the letter he had sent her, he would let her father be stranded with a few thousand worthless shares, and the old tin mine at Blackthorn Farm as a reminder of his folly.

He had warned Marjorie in the letter he had sent her that unless she came to his rooms that evening to hear what he had to say he would ruin her father, ruin him utterly and irretrievably.

He crossed the room and opened the door which led into his bedroom. His trunk was packed, everything was ready to start for the Continent at a moment's notice. It looked now as though that start would be made within twelve hours. For he knew that if Marjorie did not respond to his letter in person, she would either send it to her father or else show it to her lover, Jim, and in that case--in Mr. Despard's own language--"the fat would be in the fire," and the sooner he got out of the country for a few months' change of air the better.

He knew Marjorie had no fear for herself. Poverty had no terror for her, and she had shown by her loyalty to her brother that she was ready to face disgrace. But he believed that she would come for her father's sake.

Just as the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten there was a knock at the front door. Despard started, and a smile flitted across his thin lips.

She had come after all!

He closed the bedroom door and glanced round the room. There was a little too much light, so he switched off the hanging lamp. He glanced at himself in the mirror, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie.

She had come. He knew, as he noiselessly crossed the hall, that she would not leave his rooms until he had obtained her promise to marry him, or, failing that, until he had obtained a promise more certain of fulfilment.

His fingers trembled a little as he turned the Chubb lock and opened the door.

The woman standing outside entered quickly. Despard closed the door, and, turning, held out his hand.

"I was afraid you were not coming, Marjorie----"

"You have made a mistake. I am not Miss Dale. I am Ruby--Ruby Strode."

Despard's teeth met in his lip. He repressed an oath. "You--what do you want with me?"

He hesitated a moment, then pulled himself together and opened the sitting-room door. Ruby entered and he followed her.

"Won't you sit down? Have a whisky and soda?"

She nodded. "Thanks, I would like a drink."

While he mixed it she stared round the room. "I've not been here before. Rather a nice place. You have made a lot of money, haven't you?"

She spoke nervously, in short, sharp sentences. Despard realised something was wrong. He wondered what. He looked at her more critically as he handed her the tumbler. She was smartly dressed. Her face looked very white, her eyes large and brilliant. If anything, she was more beautiful than when he had last seen her. She had always attracted him. He remembered how once he had wanted to marry her.

And the thought crossed his mind that if Marjorie did not come Ruby Strode would not make a bad travelling companion for an enforced holiday.

"It's a long time since we've met," he said easily. "Though your friends have been busy on your behalf--or perhaps I should say on behalf of your quondam convict lover."

He saw her face grow scarlet for a moment, her eyes flash, then she veiled them, and, shrugging her shoulders, laughed easily.

"It's about my quondam lover, as you call him, that I've come to see you."

Despard yawned, and, taking a fresh cigar, lit it. "How disappointing! I thought you had come to see me for myself alone. You are just as beautiful as ever you were, Ruby."

She emptied the glass he had given her, then pulled her chair closer to his and looked at him eagerly.

"Mr. Despard--Bob--you are rich now and powerful. You've got everything you want in the world."

"Not quite," he said, leaning towards her.

"Nearly everything," she continued. "You've got money, and that buys most things."

"Yes," Despard grinned. There was a moment's pause, and again he leaned towards her. "Have you anything you want to sell?"

Once more the colour mounted her cheeks.

"Perhaps," she stammered. "I'll tell you straight out. There's nothing I wouldn't do in order to clear Rupert Dale's name."

Despard leaned back and flicked the ash off his cigar. "The same old subject. Gad, one would think you believed I altered the cheque, I'm the guilty person. I've told you and your pal, Jim Crichton, that I can do nothing, that I know nothing."

Ruby drew still a little closer to him. In the dimly-lit room she looked exceedingly beautiful. Yes, he admitted that she still fascinated him as she had done a year or two ago.

"Listen," she whispered. "I know if you had spoken at the trial you would have saved Rupert."

"Supposing for the sake of argument that I could have. What then?"