CHAPTER XII

Gordon hesitated a little time before the mirror in his bedroom at the hotel, the razor poised in his hand, his cheeks crisp with lather. There is no more solemn act undertaken by man than destruction of such facial landmarks (if the term be allowed) as are represented by cultivated hair. There is something so irrevocable, so tremendous in self-destruction of whiskers, that it is amazing so few great poets have utilised the theme.

Setting his jaw, Gordon attacked with a firm hand, the bright blade flashed in the pale sunlight ... the deed was done. Rubbing his face clean of lather, he gazed in surprise at the result. His appearance was wholly changed. It would not be extravagant to describe it as improved. Those two flickers of the razor had made him ten years younger.

“Boyish!” exclaimed Gordon, neither in despair nor pleasure, yet with something of both emotions.

Until then he had not seen the suit, that fashionable grey check with a little red in it. His first impression of the pattern had mellowed with time....

“My God!” breathed Gordon.

He was not a profane man. Once Diana had wrung from him such an expression, but Diana and her startling point of view was the mildest of provocation compared with the horror that lay unfolded on the bed.

As a length of cloth it had called for attention. It was humanly impossible to pass it by without some such comment as “That is rather unusual.” But in the piece it had dignity; there was a suggestion of weavers’ genius and ingenuity.

As a suit, embellished with a saucy waist, and with buttons that were in themselves a quiet smile.... Gordon felt a trickle of something at his temples and requisitioned his handkerchief. He could not possibly wear this. The alternative, for a short sea voyage, was a black morning coat and top hat--equally impossible.

Time was flying. He put on the trousers. They did not look so bad ... he dressed.

Standing before the long glass in the wardrobe, he looked and wondered. One thing was certain: not his dearest friend would recognise him--and his overcoat would hide much. The reflection of this new Gordon Selsbury fascinated him.

“How do you do?” he asked politely.

The figure in the mirror bowed gravely. He was a perfect stranger to Gordon, a young bookmaker, Gordon thought, and was growing interested when he realised with a shock that it was himself. Packing hastily, he rang the bell three times for the valet. If you rang twice the porter came, once, the chambermaid. So he rang three times. The chambermaid appeared. Happily the hotel is a house of call. Guests come overnight and leave in the morning. Nobody recognises anybody except under the urgent promptings of lawyers’ clerks, supported by the visitors’ book. Ten per cent of the staff was permanently giving evidence at the law courts.

“The valet,” said Gordon and, when that individual appeared, gave instructions regarding the grip containing his discarded suit and hat-box. It occurred to him at that moment that one does not journey to Scotland in a top hat, and he was rather glad that Diana had been out when he left.

“I want these things to be kept in the hotel cloak-room,” said Gordon. “I will be back next Friday night and collect them.”

Now the valet knew him; had seen him, not at the hotel, but at a very select club in Pall Mall where the man had been a waiter before the craze for improvement had driven him to the brushing of odd people’s odder clothing.

“Excuse me, sir, you’re Mr. Selsbury, aren’t you?”

Gordon went red.

“Yes, I am Mr. Selsbury,” he said with a touch of hauteur. His signature in the visitors’ book was unintelligible. The reception clerk thought it was Silsburg.

“I don’t think I should leave your bag in the hotel, sir,” said the valet gravely.

Something of authority upon the ritual of adventure, he spoke with the best of intentions.

“Next Friday particularly we’ve got a big dinner here--to one of the Colonial Premiers. The hotel will be full of people--you don’t want to meet anybody you know?”

The assumption that he was privy to the clandestine character of Gordon’s movements made the visitor incapable of protest.

“Tell me the train you’re coming by; I’ll meet you at the station with the grip--I’ll put it straight away into the railway parcels office,” said the valet gently, almost tenderly.

Gordon could think of no improvement on this method; at the same time, the valet must be under no misapprehension.

“Thank you--er----”

“Balding--I used to be a waiter at the Junior University Club, sir.”

“Yes, of course. I think your idea is an excellent one. The fact is, I’m leaving London on a ... mission, and I have to be very careful ... thousands of pounds are involved.”

“I see, sir.”

Balding was so serious as to be almost plaintive. He had met gentlemen at the hotel in similar circumstances, only _they_ had said that they were in the secret service.

“Thank you, sir ... very kind of you, I’m sure.”

Balding slipped the note into his waistcoat pocket indifferently.

“I’ll take this now, sir.” He lifted the grip from the bed. “Will you be coming by the first or the second continental on Friday? Ostend four-thirty, Paris eight-thirty.”

“Four-thirty,” said Gordon.

The die was cast. He gathered the second and smaller grip, paid his bill at the desk and went out. It was chiming the quarter before eleven when he entered Victoria Station; the train left at twelve. There was no need to rush for seats. He had his Pullman reservation in his pocket. Happily the day was raw, the sun and rain alternately, blustering wind all the time. He could turn up the collar of his greatcoat. On the indicator board he read:

“Wind N. N. W. Sea moderate to rough. Visibility good.”

He was glad, at any rate, that the visibility was good.

And then he looked around for Heloise. They had arranged to meet for the briefest space of time.

At ten minutes to eleven, he grew restive, was on the point of picking up his valise, when he saw her hurrying toward him, glancing furtively behind. And there was something in her face that made his breath come a little more quickly.

“Follow me into the waiting-room!”

She had passed him with this muttered message. Like a man in a dream, Gordon picked up his bag and followed. The big waiting-hall was nearly empty, and to its emptiest corner she led him.

“Gordon, a dreadful thing has happened.” Her agitation communicated itself to his unquiet bosom. “My husband has returned unexpectedly from Kongo. He is following me ... he is mad--mad! Oh, Gordon, what have I done!”

He did not swoon; rather, he experienced all the sensations without losing consciousness.

“He swears I have transferred my affections, and says he will never rest until he stretches the man dead at my feet. He said he would do dreadful things ... he is a great admirer of Peter the Great.”

“Is he?” said Gordon. It seemed a futile question to ask, but he could think of nothing else. And he was not a little bit interested in Mr. van Oynne’s historical leanings.

“Gordon, you must go on to Ostend and wait for me,” she said rapidly. “I will come as soon as possible ... oh, my dear, you don’t _know_ how I’m feeling!”

Gordon was so immensely absorbed in his own feelings that he made no effort of imagination.

“Didn’t you tell him that our ... our friendship was just ... spiritual?” he asked.

Her smile was faint and sad and shadowy. A ghost who had overheard a good one in a smoking-room might have laughed as hilariously.

“My dear ... who _would_ believe that? Now hurry, I must go.”

Her little hand trembled for a second on his arm and she was gone.

He picked up his bag, it was curiously heavy, and followed her into the station. She was nowhere in sight. A porter stretched a suggestive hand toward his baggage.

“Continental train, sir ... have you got a seat?”

Gordon looked up at the clock. It wanted five minutes of eleven.

“Eleven-five the boat train, sir,” said the porter.

“Eleven-five? I thought it was eleven,” said Gordon numbly.

“There’s plenty of time, sir.”

Still Gordon stood, motionless. For some extraordinary reason his mind had refused to function; he was wholly incapable of decision or movement. The engine of his faculties had gone cold and refused to start.

“Get me a cab, please.”

The mechanism of the request saved him.

“Yes, sir.”

The bag was taken from his unresisting hand. He followed the porter to the busy courtyard, pathetic in his helplessness.

“Where shall I tell him to go, sir?”

The porter stood invitingly, the cab door in his hand, a friendly smile on his face. He had not yet been tipped.

“Scotland,” said Gordon hollowly.

“Scotland--you mean Scotland Yard?”

This touched the spring: all the wheels in Mr. Selsbury’s mind began revolving at once.

“No, no--to the Grovely Hotel. Thank you very much.”

The gratuity that Gordon crushed into the outstretched hand was munificent, princely. One glance at its value and the porter staggered against the door, closed it with a strangled “Grovely!” and the cab rattled out of the station precincts.

At that moment Bobbie Selsbury was engaged in a frenzied seat-to-seat search for his erring brother.

Gordon was cooler now, though not out of danger. He could think: he could also for the moment inhibit thought. A jealous and revengeful husband, probably armed, certainly homicidal, and a student of Peter the Great and his methods, could not be wholly inhibited. Gordon wondered whether in his library he had a really frank and unexpurgated history of Peter.

The hotel linkman opened the door of the cab, professionally pleased at his return.

“Keep the cab,” warned Gordon. He was by no means certain that he was capable, unaided, of calling another.

At the desk of the reception clerk he recovered his key and the right to its employment, and carrying his bag to his room, rang the bell three times for the valet. The porter answered him, but not by mischance, as was proved.

“Balding is off duty, sir,” he explained. “He goes off at eleven on Saturdays.”

“When will he be back?”

“On Monday, sir. We have a whole day every second week. Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

Gordon shook his head. He only wanted his bag and his lost respectability. Removing his overcoat, he looked at himself in the glass.

“That isn’t me,” he said brokenly.

His appearance had changed, even in the short space of time elapsing between this and his last inspection.

The type was hideously familiar. He had seen it once in a vulgar film where everybody chased everybody else. He remembered that the heroine wore white stockings and black boots.

There were two alternatives. He might remain a prisoner in that room until Balding returned from his holiday; he could go home, get into the house unobserved and change. He had many black-tailed coats, batteries of silk hats, forests of quiet, grey-striped trousers. This idea was more attractive. Diana would lunch at one o’clock; the dining-room was across the hall from The Study. It would be a simple matter to slip upstairs, change and come down to meet the astonished eyes of Diana. How surprised she would be, and how amusing and unbending he would be!

“Didn’t expect to see me, eh? Well, the fact is, I had an important cablegram--just as I was getting into the train. My sidewhiskers? Yes, I took them off as a little surprise for you. Rather an improvement, don’t you think?”

His heart warmed to the plan, and there was a glow in the thought that the desire of the morning, that he should sleep in his own bed that night, would be gratified. And there was the companionship of Diana, hitherto an unconsidered attraction. Diana grew on him: he admitted this to himself. If Heloise did go after him to Ostend, that would be unfortunate. He hated the idea of giving her a journey for nothing. But she would not leave for a day or two, and he would find means of communicating with her....

He shuddered; for at the back of the vision of Heloise, stood the large, brutal husband who was mad, mad.

There were two hours to wait before he could put his plan into operation. He telephoned from his bedroom to a bookseller’s in the Buckingham Palace Road.

“Have you a good life of Peter the Great?” he asked.

They had two. He ordered them to be sent to him immediately. He was rather amused with himself.

He was less amused when he heard of the fate of one who had aspired to the affections of Catherine, and whose head had been placed into a large glass jar and displayed in Catherine’s boudoir to remind her that husbands have their feelings. There was another gentleman who loved Catherine, and him Peter had hanged on a high gibbet, under which he promenaded arm in arm with Catherine. The arm and arm was a domestic touch not lost upon Gordon. On the whole, he decided thoughtfully, a profound admiration for Peter’s character would have no softening tendency upon any man, especially a man who was mad, mad.

He put away his book, drew on his overcoat, and, passing down in the elevator, found his cab still waiting, the meter bloated with charges. He had forgotten all about the cab.

At the corner of the street he paid the man and walked rapidly into Cheynel Gardens, his nose showing above the collar of his overcoat. Happily, the street was empty. He almost ran when he reached the familiar façade of his house, turned into the side passage, and, with a trembling hand, fitted the key into the lock of the back gate. Suppose it were bolted? The horrid doubt was no sooner in his mind than it was dispelled. The key turned easily, and he found himself looking up at the familiar window of his study.

Tiptoeing to the little door, he listened. There was no sound, and, with minute care to avoid making the slightest noise, he pushed his pass-key slowly in the lock, and pushed the door open a fraction of an inch. Not a sound. He opened it a little further, slipped behind the curtain which hid the door, and closed it behind him.

The room was empty, the two doors into the hall ajar. He could hear the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock on the staircase.

His first step, he had decided, must be to get into touch with Bobbie. Listening at the hall door, he heard the click of steel on china--Diana was at lunch, as he had expected. He closed first the baize, and then the inner door softly, shot a bolt and tiptoed across the room. Bless Diana for bringing the telephone into The Study!

Bobbie’s office responded. A late leaving clerk had heard the ring of the ’phone and came back to answer.

“No, sir, Mr. Selsbury is not in to-day.”

Gordon rang off without disclosing his identity, and tried Bobbie’s lodgings in Half Moon Street, with no better success. He was wasting valuable time, he realised, and Bobbie could wait. He put on the receiver and stood up, stretching himself, with an easy, happy, home-coming smile. Yes, Diana would be surprised.

He crossed the room to the hall. His hand was on the handle when, glancing round, he saw the curtain which hid the door into the courtyard move and billow. He had left the door open, he thought, and was on the point of returning to close it, when a hand came round the edge of the curtain, and he stood, frozen to the spot. Again the draperies moved, and a woman came into view. It was Heloise!

Gordon did not believe the evidence of his eyes. She was some vision conjured up by an overheated brain, a symptom of disordered nerves.

“You are not real,” he said dully. “Avaunt!”

“Gordon!”

The outstretched hands, the plea in her eyes. Gordon Selsbury stood with his back to the door.

“How did you come here?” he croaked.

“Through the garden gate--the way you came.... I followed you. Gordon, he is furious! You must protect me.”

He could only stare at her owlishly.

“You mean--Peter?” he nodded.

“Peter? No, my husband, Claude. He knows everything!” dramatically.

“Is he ... an editor?”

He was talking foolishly: nobody knew that better than Gordon; but the works were beginning to slow down again. And then she came to him and dropped both her hands on his arm.

“You want me to stay here, don’t you? You won’t turn me out ...? He followed me, but I slipped him.”

“Stay here?” Gordon hardly recognised his own voice. “Are you mad?”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“Are you married?”

“No.” And then a flashing inspiration. “Yes.”

“Yes-no,” she said impatiently. “What are you--divorced?”

“No. You see how absurd it is, Heloise.”

“You are married to Diana.” She pointed an accusing finger.

Gordon could only nod idiotically.

“You really must go,” he squeaked. “This may mean ruin for me!”

Her lips curled as she drew back, hands on hips.

“Do I get any of that ruin?” she demanded.

“You must go back to your husband.” His brain was alert now. “Tell him you have made a mistake----”

“He pretty well guesses that,” she interrupted bitterly, and slowly took off her wrap.

Instantly Gordon seized it.

“Put it on, put it on!” he wailed, but she twisted herself loose.

“I will not go, I will not! Oh, Gordon, you can’t turn me out after all we’ve been to one another! After all the confidences!”

He was pushing her toward the courtyard door, a man beside himself, frenzied with fear, terrified beyond hope of succour.

“Out of the side door!” he hissed. “I will meet you in half an hour, at a teashop somewhere. Heloise, don’t you realise my reputation depends----”

It needed but this to pull the mask from her face.

“Teashop! I am to be thrown to the lions!”

He looked hard at her. Could a woman pun in such a solemn moment?

“As to your reputation,” she drawled coolly, “that sort of thing doesn’t make me get out of bed and walk round, I assure you! I will not leave this house--alone!”

Gordon covered his mouth with his hand. He was in no danger of talking. He wanted to cover her mouth with his hand, but she was too far away. It was an involuntary gesture which silenced her. She heard the knock at the door, and then Diana’s voice:

“Who is there?”

He pointed to the side door, grimacing. Heloise was adamant.

“Who’s there?” said Diana.

“Side door,” whispered Gordon frantically.

Heloise shook her head, hesitated, and then stole silently behind the curtain into the recess. It was her final compromise.

“Who is there? Who locked the door?”

Diana’s voice was urgent. Gordon straightened his coat, smoothed his hair, unlocked the door and threw it wide open.

“It’s all right, dear.” He was grinning inanely like a cat. “Ha ha--it’s only Gordon--Gord, as you would say! I’m just coming out ... here I am back again ... like a bad penny.”

In Diana’s eyes was a glitter which he did not like, and as she advanced he backed instantly before her.

“Only old Gordon--ha ha!” he said feebly.

“Very funny. I’ll laugh to-morrow,” said Diana.

The vulgarity of the ancient music-hall gag did not even arouse him.

“So it’s only old Gordon, is it?” She nodded wisely. “Sit over there--old Gordon!” She pointed to a chair.

“Now look here, my dear girl.” It was a very colourless imitation of his best manner. “The whole thing can be explained. I lost my train....”

She was opening a drawer in the writing table, slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his face. When her hand came to view, it held a Browning.

_Click!_ The jacket snapped back. It was loaded.

“What are you doing, Diana?” he squeaked again.

Her eyes were now murderous.

“Will you be good enough not to call me Diana?” she asked icily. “So you’ve come, have you? And even I, who expect most things, didn’t expect you. But, my friend, you’ve come at an opportune hour!”

“Look here, old girl--” he began.

“You can omit the familiarities.” She waved him down to his chair. “Never imagine that you will deceive me--I know you!”

“You know me?” he said hoarsely. He had come to a point where he wasn’t quite certain whether he knew himself.

“I know you,” she repeated slowly. “You’re Double Dan!”

He leapt to his feet, the pistol covering him. Waving wild hands, he strove to speak.

“You’re Double Dan,” she said, and the fire in her eyes was now ominous. “I’ve heard about you. You’re the impersonator. You and your woman confederate lure innocent men from their homes, that you can rob them.” She looked round. “Where is the woman? Doesn’t she appear on the scene, or does her work finish when the luring is completed?”

“Diana, I swear to you you’re mistaken. I’m Gordon, your cousin.”

She smiled slowly.

“You haven’t been as careful as usual, Dan. And the fact that I call you by your Christian name need not inspire you with a desire to get better acquainted. You haven’t studied him. My cousin, Gordon Selsbury, had little side-whiskers--didn’t you know that?”

“I--I had an accident. In fact,” said Gordon, “I took them off ... to please you.”

Her sneering smile chilled him through and through.

“My cousin Gordon is not the kind of man who would have an accident with his whiskers,” she said with cold deliberation. “Where is your lady friend?”

He tried to look away from the curtained recess, stared solemnly ahead of him, but involuntarily his eyes strayed to the garden door. And then Diana saw the slightest of movements.

“Come out, please,” she said.

There was no response.

“Come out, or I’ll shoot!”

The curtain grew agitated. Heloise, white of face, flew across the room, flinging herself upon Gordon’s heaving bosom.

“Don’t let her shoot me! Don’t let her shoot me!” she shrieked.

Diana looked and nodded.

“So this man is your husband!” she said.

Walking back to the door, she closed it.

“Now listen to me, Double Dan and Mrs. Double Dan, or whatever your names may be. You are here to commit a felony, and I could, if I wished, send for the police and hand you over to justice. I’m not sure that I shan’t take that course. For the moment, however, your presence is providential.”

And then, in scorn:

“Gordon Selsbury! Do you imagine Gordon Selsbury would bring a woman to this house furtively? Do you imagine he would come dressed like a third-class comedian? Never dare mention Mr. Selsbury’s name again in my presence!”

Gordon opened and closed his mouth, but no words came.

“You will stay here until I give you permission to go.”

She went to the garden gate, closed and slammed it, then came back to Gordon.

“You had a key? Give it to me,” she said curtly.

Gordon obeyed, lamb-like, watching her as she double-locked the door. And then he made his last desperate attempt.

“Diana, I can explain everything,” he said hoarsely. “I am--the fact is--I’ll tell you the truth. I was going abroad, and the fact is, I am Gordon, although I may not seem so. I admit I’m wearing the most disgustingly loud suit, and that I have in other ways changed my appearance, but that also can be explained.”

There was a knock on the panel of the door.

“Wait,” said Diana, and walked backward to the entrance. “Who is it?”

“Eleanor, madam. A telegram.”

“Push it under the door.”

An orange envelope came into sight, and, picking it up, she tore away the cover and read the form.

“Go on,” she signalled to Gordon. “You say you are Gordon Selsbury? Tell me some more. But before you do so, listen to this:

“‘Just leaving Euston. Take care of yourself. Gordon.’

“Now there need be no deception on either side. Open your heart to me, little man. Who are you--Gordon Selsbury or Double Dan?”

“Anything!” The wail of the damned.

“Gordon Selsbury or Double Dan?” she demanded inexorably.

He threw out his hands.

“Double Dan,” snarled Gordon.

Of the two alternative rôles, this seemed the more creditable.