CHAPTER XX

“Bobbie!”

The girl came toward him with both hands outstretched. Behind her in the hall he saw a strange shadow.

“Hullo, dear! I came as soon as you wanted me, I hope?”

Mr. Dempsi was now visible. His black sombrero gave him a sinister appearance. His voice was querulous, his manner menacing.

“Dear?” he asked deeply. “Who calls you ‘dear’? What is this man to you, Diana?”

“My dear Mr. Dempsi,” she said wearily, “this gentleman.”

But he was furious; flung his hat on the ground and swung his cloak from him with the air of a _capelerro_. Bobbie expected to see a belt with knives and pistols--the poker dot waistcoat was an anticlimax.

“I will not endure it,” he stormed. “Do you hear, sir? You address this lady as dear--explain!”

She saved Bobbie the trouble.

“This is Mr. Selsbury, my cousin.” Diana was dangerously quiet. Probably Mr. Dempsi, from his long acquaintance with her, recognised the signs.

“Ah! Your cousin! I see the likeness. The same beautiful eyes, the same firm but gentle mouth. The slight figure, the lovely hand----”

Bobbie was annoyed.

“Thank you very much, but when you’ve finished cataloguing my features and describing my delectable points, perhaps you’ll tell me who you are?”

He was antagonistic, and he needed no introduction. For he knew the bearded man, and shared the spurious Gordon’s resentment and utter dislike.

“This is Mr. Dempsi,” said Diana. “You’ve heard me speak of him?”

There was an appeal in her eyes which Bobbie could not resist. He made a show of being happy to meet Mr. Dempsi. As an effort of simulation it was a failure.

“Won’t you change your coat, Wop--Wopsy--upstairs?” she suggested.

Dempsi kissed her hand.

“My beloved--I go. Your word is law! Sir--cousin--Bobbie, forgive me.”

Bobbie forced a smile of friendliness. His gentle cousin thought he was ill.

Mr. Dempsi went singing up the stairs: _Donna e mobile_ was the song. He sang it happily and flatly, as though his throat rebelled against this rejoicing in the fickleness of woman.

“Suffering cats!” said Bobbie, awe-stricken. “Is that the First Love?”

She nodded.

“And is that his style of conversation--a bit wearing, isn’t it?”

“Wearing? Bobbie, he’s just like that to every man who looks at me! He’s changed in appearance--I suppose six years makes an awful difference. I used to think there was room for nothing but improvement, for he was only a boy then. But, oh, Bobbie, he’s worse! He wanted to strangle the waiter at the Ritz-Carlton at lunch because he was rather good-looking and had a sense of humour--he smiled when I made a feeble joke. And, Bobbie, Double Dan----”

She saw that Bobbie knew, and sighed gratefully. Bobbie was to be a tower of strength: she had guessed that all along.

“He’s here,” said the young man.

“You’ve seen him? Thank heavens! He _is_ like Gordon, isn’t he? The make-up is astounding. I’ve tried to find out the secret. But he’s so useful about the house. That alone betrays him. Gordon lived in the clouds, where there were no laundry bills and no patent sweepers. And he came in time to be Uncle Isaac. No, we haven’t any real Uncle Isaac, but he served beautifully, and, what is more, he brought with him a perfectly good aunt----”

“The audacious scoundrel!” Bobbie cried wrathfully. “Why, do you know, he nearly deceived me? I wasn’t as clever as you. I talked with him for ten minutes about his troubles. He’s evidently studied every detail of appearance and association. And he makes no mistakes--he called me Bobbie the first time he saw me.”

“He called me Diana. But he didn’t deceive me--not for a moment,” said the girl, flopping into Gordon’s big chair. “This morning I caught him trying to get into Gordon’s dressing-room! He has to be watched day and night, and of course he has a perfectly good excuse for everything he does. He said he wanted some clothes!”

Bobbie thought that a desire to change into clothing less vocal than the suit he was wearing was not reprehensible even in Double Dan. But the audacity of the man!

“The villain! I wish to heaven I hadn’t gone to Ostend.”

She reminded herself that she must ask him why he went at all. That could wait, however.

“I had to arrange everything on the spot,” she said, going back to the hectic moments of Saturday. “Luckily I remembered that little man’s ’phone number--you weren’t here when he told me? Hate, hate, ho, Ammersmith. Then I had to invent a story--oh, positively dozens of stories! They weren’t lies--just expedients. The stroke of genius was the one about Uncle Isaac being eccentric. Happily Dempsi loves him.”

“Who?” asked the startled Bobbie. “Not Uncle Isaac surely? He gave me the impression--but that was in his rôle of Gordon--that he hated him.”

“No, I mean Superbus. He took to him at once--it was the sort of thing he would do. He kept white mice when he was a boy and adored them! Dempsi thinks that he and Mr. Superbus must have both descended from Julius Cæsar. He spent all the morning in the book room searching for Cæsar’s Life.”

“How does Double Dan accept your treatment of him--and your discovery that he was a fake?”

“That is the surprising thing,” said Diana in wonder. “He was meekness itself--I never saw a man so quickly accept a situation as he did.”

“And the perfectly good aunt?”

Diana shrugged.

“She was difficult. That is natural, being a woman. But she is tame now. I called her Aunt Lizzie to save a scandal. But”--her voice sank--“they’re not married!”

Bobbie tried hard to look surprised.

“Aren’t they?”

Diana shook her head. There was some good Puritan blood in the Fords. Bobbie never received evidence of its presence without a little shock of surprise.

“No! Isn’t it terrible? They’re not married. They are not even engaged: I could tell that by the way she orders him about. She does so with the air of a woman who has nothing to lose. But I’m determined on one thing. I thought it out before I went to bed. He shall marry her before he leaves this house! She has been hopelessly compromised. This adventure shall have one good result.”

Bobbie was not enthusiastic.

“I shouldn’t meddle if I were you,” he said, but made no impression on her.

Gordon Selsbury came into the room unnoticed. He carried a dustpan and a short-handled broom. He stood for a while irresolutely, neither of the pair noticing him. Then:

“Have you heard from Gordon?”

Her face lit up.

“I’ve had the loveliest wires from him. Really he has been most thoughtful! The dear man has telegraphed from almost every station.”

Bobbie coughed.

“Somehow I thought he would,” he said.

She was searching her handbag and brought out a folded paper.

“Here is the last, from Crewe; it didn’t arrive until ten o’clock this morning. ‘Having a comfortable journey. Hope everything is going smoothly--Gordon.’”

Bobbie sat up.

“Oh, I say, that’s too bad,” he protested warmly--too warmly, he realised. “I mean, it’s too bad that didn’t arrive until to-day. Write to the Post Office.”

Gordon growled under his breath, and took another step into the room. Diana saw him, but made no sign. He was one with the furniture.

“If he’d only stay away for another week!” she sighed.

It was the opportunity for which Bobbie had hoped.

“You know, old Gordon isn’t such a bad chap,” he said. “I know one’s first impression is that he is a terrible prig, and his manner is bad, I admit; and he’s a thought conceited. These intellectuals are. Though why, I’ve never understood.”

She shook her head. Evidently she had already found excuses for Gordon, and there was no need for his championship.

“Conceited? But most men are, don’t you think? I wouldn’t call it conceit--he’s a little self-important, that’s all.”

The hand that wielded the broom trembled, the dust-pan wobbled.

“Yes, I suppose that’s what he is,” said Bobbie thoughtfully. “Gordon was rather spoilt as a kid, and that makes a man a little self-important.”

“And pharisaical, don’t you think?” suggested Diana, considering. “I ought not to say anything unkind. Really I’m not. He isn’t any worse for our frankness.”

Mr. Gordon Selsbury half rose from his knees, his mouth working, his face pale with fury.

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” said Bobbie regretfully. “And poor old Gordon _has_ faults.”

“The faults of age,” said Diana. “He’s the sort of man who has been forty-five ever since he was born; but, thank God, he’s not flighty!” she added piously.

The sweeper nodded in agreement, but his faint smile was to vanish.

“Don’t put any man on a pedestal, my dear,” said Bobbie in the paternal manner.

“Sneak!” said Gordon fiercely but inaudibly.

“The best of men make mistakes,” the traitor brother continued. “His very innocence is a disadvantage. I could well imagine that a woman with the right line of talk could twist him round her little finger!”

She dissented. Diana had her own views, and they were mainly unbendable.

“If I were his wife I should trust Gordon, Bobbie,” she said seriously. “He’s the very soul of honour. Whatever you say of Gordon, you’ve got to admit he’s that. He wouldn’t do anything undignified or vulgar. I could imagine many things, but I could not imagine Gordon going to Ostend, even in a mood of theosophical ecstasy, without a chaperone.”

Bobbie shifted uneasily. He was by nature honest, in spite of his being a tea-broker. There were certain fundamentals in his code with which he could not dispense, even to shield Gordon.

“N-no, perhaps not,” he said.

She smiled scornfully.

“Perhaps! You know he wouldn’t, Bobbie! I can’t think of his doing a thing like that. Why, Gordon is the very antithesis of vulgarity! Could you imagine him engaged in a clandestine friendship with a woman like Aunt Lizzie? It is absurd. Can you imagine him walking into this house with a strange female and pretending that he doesn’t know her when he is detected? I should imagine not!”

Still Bobbie had a duty to perform.

“I think you’re mad to trust any man absolutely,” he said firmly. “No man is worthy of that confidence.”

She laughed.

“You’re a cynical bachelor.”

A voice came from the background. An indignant and an emphatic voice.

“That is just what I say,” said Gordon. “I can’t imagine a more immoral point of view, striking at the very roots--er--um----”

He almost cringed under Diana’s gaze.

“How dare you interrupt?” she demanded.

“I--er--I----”

Bobbie took a hand.

“Now see here, my friend, you take my advice and drop this pretence,” he said gravely. “You will deceive nobody--though I can understand why you have not given up hope--and you may get yourself into very serious trouble. If I had my way, you would be in that position at this moment, but my cousin, for an excellent reason, has refrained from handing you over to the police. That generosity ought to be appreciated by you.”

Gordon set his teeth, cast broom and brush to the devil and leapt up.

“I don’t care--I will tell the truth,” he said doggedly. “In spite of everything--in spite of all appearances, I am Gordon Selsbury.”

He looked round: Superbus was at the door, a buff envelope in his hand. It was no use; he went down on his knees and groped for the dustpan. He was beaten.

“A wire for you, ma’am. I never knew they came on Sunday.”

She took the envelope and tore it open.

“Another! ‘Aberdeen. Very good journey and looking forward to my return. Gordon.’”

Bobbie gaped.

“What an artist!” he said.

She turned on him with a frown.

“I say, what a nasty journey!” corrected Bobbie.

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“Do you know, I’m beginning to feel quite different toward Gordon,” she said.

The sweeper sat up on his heels expectantly. For a second she became conscious of his presence.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked coldly.

“Nothing--nothing.” The despairing man stooped to his task.

“Where is your--your accomplice?” she asked.

Gordon turned his head.

“She’s reading--‘How to be Happy though Married,’” he said cynically.

Kindness was wasted on such a man.

“What are you going to do with Dempsi?” asked Bobbie, leaning across and dropping his voice.

She made a little face.

“I’m in despair, Bobbie. I can’t count on his losing himself again. The only thing he shows any signs of losing is his head--and I never knew him when he had one worth losing. Well?”

It was Superbus again. She wished he wouldn’t put his hand on his heart before he bowed.

“That parson gentleman’s called again,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “He’s the Vicar of Banhurst.”

Superbus was country-bred and was schooled in the values of ecclesiastical rank. The Vicar of Banhurst was a person of eminence. To Diana he was part of the marriage trap. The steel grille that would cut her off from freedom. She was panic-stricken by his very presence in the house.

“Tell him I’m ill,” she said frantically. “Tell him--I’m--I’m very ill. Ask him to come to-morrow. And please, please don’t tell Mr. Dempsi he is here.”

“He said if you’d call him up--” Superbus offered tentatively the clerical card. She waved it away.

“I don’t want his address--I don’t _want_ it!”

Mr. Superbus did his bow and went out. Her face was the picture of woe.

“Bobbie, what am I to do? That’s the third time he’s called to-day.”

“Who is he?”

“The clergyman. Dempsi’s idea! He thinks our marriage is a matter of hours! It is so like Dempsi, so absurdly, so tragically mad; but he’d hardly been with me two minutes before he told me he was sending for the parson to ‘make us one’! And I know which one! I read the review of a book to-day by a man whose name I forget. It doesn’t matter. He says that there are conditions in which assassination is the purest and noblest expression of public sentiment. Will you get it for me?”

“But he couldn’t marry you in the evening,” persisted Bobbie. “It is against the law.”

She was darkly amused.

“Against the law! What is a little thing like that to Dempsi? He is the law!”

“It seems a simple matter to get him away.” Bobbie searched his mind for a solution. “Have you any plan?”

Had she any plan? Was there a moment of consciousness in the day that she did not form a new scheme to rid herself of her electric incubus?

“I’ve a hundred, and they’re all futile and foolish. I thought of running away. That seems about the only sane idea I have had.”

“Running away? To where?” he asked.

“To Scotland. To join Gordon.”

Bobbie jumped up, a very perturbed young man.

“You mustn’t do that!” he cried. “Whatever you do, don’t do that, Diana! In the first place, none of us knows where he is; in the second place--well ... I shouldn’t do it.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Why not? I could tell Gordon the whole truth, and I’m sure he would be nice and sympathetic. I feel very sure of Gordon in a great crisis like this--it is a very dear feeling to have.” She smiled a little pathetically.

“Suppose Dempsi followed you--and he certainly would,” urged Bobbie. “Suppose he found that you’d deceived him, and came upon you on the moors with Gordon?”

The smile deepened; into her eyes came a faraway look.

“That’s an idea. Gordon would have his gun on the moors,” she said. “Hush! Here he comes.”

Bobbie had agreed readily to stay the night, for the great Superbus was tired, being human, as he explained, and having only one pair of eyes that needed rest.

There was a slight scene at dinner (Heloise cooked this, and Diana’s respect for her increased).

Dempsi, in his most extravagant mood, called for wine. He wanted wine, red wine--to drink the health of his bride. He demanded that it be red and rosy. That it bubbled with the laughter of sunny vineyards. That its hue be as of the warm, rich blood of youth, palpitating, pulsing, seething with love. This he said in so many words. Bobbie said something terse and offensive, and offered him a whisky and soda. Mr. Dempsi looked black, and Diana hastily intervened. But she might as well have attempted to stay the tide of time. Dempsi made a remarkably quick recovery; spoke tremulously of his happiness; kissed Diana’s hand; gave her for the third time the history of his life.

When he lay in the foul huts of the natives, recovering from his fever, when he searched the world through for traces of his lost love, when, under the starry skies of the Australian bush, he pressed on desperately, doggedly, unflinchingly, following the trail of his divine lady--this was the thought he had--Diana! That some day she should be his! The past sad years should be blotted out and forgotten. All the misery of life would vanish as in a cloud.

“Rot!” said Bobbie.

Mr. Dempsi dissolved into tears.

“Really, Diana, I can’t stand that fellow,” said Bobbie, when the devoted lover had flooded from the room.

Diana lay back limp in her chair, fanning herself with her handkerchief.

“Bobbie, he’s--he’s terrible!” she moaned. “Bobbie, there must be some other solution than murder?”

Mr. Dempsi, in his temperamental way, recovered his equilibrium before he had crossed the hall. Julius Superbus was making up The Study fire as he came in--Dempsi went straight to him, laid his hand on his shoulder, too overcome for speech.

“Ah, my friend!” he murmured.

Julius, at a loss for a suitable response, played for safety.

“Good-evening, sir,” he said, and patted his fellow Roman on the head.

“The one friend I have in this house--the one understanding soul! The one honest creature that is faithful to my memory.”

Mr. Dempsi invariably spoke of himself as though he had recently returned from a brief holiday in heaven.

“I wouldn’t say that, sir,” said Julius generously. “There are others.”

“I do say it! I, Guiseppi Dempsi! Who denies my right?” he demanded fiercely.

Julius backed off.

“Not me, sir, I’m sure,” he said hastily. “It’s the last thing in the world I’d dream of doing.”

Guiseppi grew gentle again.

“The moment I saw you, I said: ‘Here is a man with vision, a big man, a man of sensibility! Superbus has a heart, feeling, _simpatico_--a man of affairs, a keen-eyed officer of the law!”

Mr. Superbus moved uneasily. He had all an amateur detective’s fear of misrepresentation. He coughed.

“Not exactly an officer of the law, sir. In a sense I am, and in a sense I’m not, though I used to be when I was a bailiff in the County Court.”

Dempsi smiled.

“But now you are a detective. A disciple of the immortal Holmes--what a man, what ingenuity! You are this--you told me?”

Julius hastened to correct a wrong impression.

“Private, sir, private. As I explained to you, sir, I was brought in----”

Dempsi never allowed anybody else to talk.

“To watch for a despicable scoundrel,” said Dempsi hotly. “That such should be at liberty! Double Dan! Even his name is deplorable! Ah! You are surprised that I have heard of this violator of sanctuaries? You clever detective, you are astounded and flabbergasted that I also know of this pestiferous brigand? Superbus, I ask a favour: when you have discovered him, send for me.”

There was a significant glitter in his eyes. His half-closed hands already dripped with the blood of his victim. Mr. Superbus was spellbound.

“Send for me,” repeated Dempsi deliberately. “I haven’t killed a man for years. But I will not speak of that. I am too sorry for his wife and family. I have a tender heart.” He gazed at Julius in admiration. “So you are a detective! One of that great and silent army of watchers, everlastingly on duty, standing between peaceable citizens like Guiseppi Dempsi and the vultures who prey upon society!”

Dempsi held out his hand. Mr. Superbus, his eyes modestly lowered, took it. He felt for once that he was being taken at a proper valuation. Dempsi was a man of the world, a Sir Hubert whose praise was praise indeed. Julius made a mental note of the words for future exhibition.

At any moment Dempsi might switch off to an unimportant subject.

“Yes, it is a bit of a job,” agreed Julius. “The public don’t understand.”

“They wouldn’t,” said Mr. Dempsi scornfully.

“We take some risks,” Mr. Superbus went on. “You can’t get about town without taking risks--I was nearly run over by a ’bus yesterday.”

Dempsi was impressed.

“No!”

Julius nodded.

“I was--in the execution of me duty,” he said. “I saw a suspicious looking man--he looked like a fellow that had been owing me money for years--and crossed the road to have a look at him.” His gesture suggested a swerving motor ’bus. “As near as that,” he said simply but impressively.

Dempsi shuddered appropriately.

“Ah, it is fine work! Have you brought many men to justice? I see you have, but it is too painful to talk about. I understand your fine feelings--you are worthy.”

“Well, I’ve brought them to the County Court,” said Julius. “That’s not exactly to justice. People who can’t pay their bills and owe tradesmen money.”

The other regarded him in awe.

“I wonder you can sleep at night,” he said in a hushed voice.

Julius smiled callously. He suggested thereby that the ruin of small litigants meant less to him than the indubitable fact that flies have corns and suffer from asthma.

“They never get on my mind,” he said; “and as for sleeping--I’m a pretty good sleeper; nothing disturbs me.”

He hoped, at any rate, that nothing would disturb him that night, for he was sleeping on a made-up bed in The Study. It was Diana’s idea and he viewed all Diana’s ideas with a suspicion which was, it must be confessed, justifiable.

“Ah, a good conscience!” said Dempsi. “What a beautiful thing!”

Mr. Superbus wasn’t sure whether this admirable characteristic of his was due entirely to conscience.

“A good digestion’s got something to do with it,” he said. “I’m a careful feeder.”

“Tell me,” said Dempsi confidentially, “have you served her long--my queen?”

Mr. Superbus called up to memory his acquaintance with contemporary history.

“I thought you had a king in Italy?” he said.

Dempsi laughed.

“No, no, you mistake me--my sweet lady--my Diana?” he asked softly. “I am jealous of your privilege in serving her.”

“Oh, you mean ma’am? No, I’ve only just got to know her.”

Dempsi changed the subject abruptly.

“I will go to bed. To-night there is no lock upon my door. If Double Dan comes, you will let me know?”

He need not ask that question. Given consciousness and the ability to scream, all the house would know from Julius that the monster had arrived.

“Why, certainly. But I can manage him.”

Dempsi bit his lower lip, viewing his friend thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes, I shall know the moment the firing starts--at the first bang I will be by your side.”

Julius turned white. In moments of great excitement all great Romans go white. Cæsar Borgia had that failing. And for the matter of that, so had Nero, the celebrated fire-bug.

“Firing?” he asked faintly.

Dempsi nodded.

“He is armed--certain to be. But remember this--and let it be in your mind all the time; the thought may comfort you--when you fall I shall be ready to take your place.”

Julius stretched his neck forward.

“When--when I fall?” he said unsteadily. “I’m not likely to fall if I keep to the carpets--it’s the par-kay that does me in.”

“You will look up and see me”--Dempsi obviously relished the picture he drew--“perhaps the last thing you will ever see on earth--standing over your prostrate body, pierced, my poor Superbus, by a dozen bullets. I shall be there, face to face with your murderer!”

Julius closed his eyes and his lips moved. Yet he was not at his devotional exercises. Before his horrified vision spread a veritable panorama of tragedy with one notable figure in the foreground somewhat inanimate.