Part 4

The circumstances surrounding the loss of which she complained were peculiar. She had been spending the evening at the house of the German Ambassador, and was returning home in Miss Mainwaring’s carriage, when she became aware of the fact that she had lost the jewelled pendant which her aunt had given her as a token of reconciliation when she returned to her after being suddenly widowed.

A frantic search of the carriage bore no results, and Mrs Bevan hastily told the coachman to return to the embassy. But she prudently refrained from confiding the particulars of her loss to him, for she was not quite without hope that it might be remedied. Madame von Auerbach was, however, able to give her no comfort, for she had herself suffered in like manner with her guest.

She had lost a valuable diamond-studded watch, and when the most careful search failed to discover it, the conclusion arrived at was that some thief must have been present at the reception. It was an unpleasant conclusion to arrive at. But it was the only natural one. For the Ambassador’s wife had not left her guests, or gone beyond the reception rooms, from the time she entered them, wearing the watch, to the moment when, the last visitors having just gone, she thought of looking at her watch, and found that it had disappeared.

Mrs Bevan’s return a few moments later with the news that her pendant had disappeared, confirmed the supposition that some professional thief must have been at work, and the police were at once communicated with. They were also strictly enjoined to keep the matter a profound secret, for various reasons.

But Mrs Bevan was too anxious to rely entirely upon the exertions of the regular force, hence her application to our firm and her urgent entreaty that I would act with the utmost despatch.

Soon after my client’s departure I sought an interview with Madame von Auerbach, but could glean very little useful information. The invitations had been sent out with great care, but their exclusiveness was negatived by the fact that they were all sent to So-and-so and friend. The position of those invited by name had been considered sufficient guarantee of the perfect suitability of the friends whom they might select to accompany them to the embassy, and at least a score of people had been present of whom the hostess barely heard even their names.

Of course, no one could treat any single one of these individuals as suspects without some definite suspicion to work upon, and unfortunately for our prospects of success, there was not the slightest ground for suspecting anyone in particular.

I was about to quit Madame von Auerbach’s house when a servant entered with a card upon a waiter, and upon hearing that the name inscribed thereon was that of one of the guests of the previous evening, I hastily decided to stay a little longer, and requested Madame von Auerbach to keep my vocation a secret from her visitor.

The next minute a most bewitching little woman was ushered into the room.

“Oh, my dear madame!” she exclaimed, with a charming foreign accent. “Such an unfortunate thing! I lost my beautiful diamond clasp last night. Have your servants seen anything of it?”

Madame von Auerbach turned pale, and I looked with augmented interest at the harbinger of this new development of the previous evening’s mystery. The depredations had evidently been on a large scale, and the depredators had shown remarkably good taste in the choice of their spoil. The latest victim was a French lady named Madame Duchesne, and she waxed eloquent in lamentations over her loss when it was shown to her how little hope there was of recovering her diamond clasp.

“And do you know, I feel so terribly upset,” was her pathetic protest, “that I would give anything not to have had to go on with my own garden party to-morrow. And I don’t like to say it, but it is a fact that I may also have included the thief in my invitation, and it would be awful if more things were to be stolen. Whatever shall I do?”

As no practical advice seemed to be forthcoming, Madame Duchesne studied for a moment, and then announced her intention of employing a detective.

“Not a real, horrid policeman,” she averred, “but one of those extraordinary individuals who seem able to look through and through you, and who can find anything out. Private detectives, I think they call them.”

Madame von Auerbach looked up eagerly, but I gave her a warning glance which caused her to postpone the revelation of my identity which she had felt prompted to make.

“Do you know any of these people?” was the Frenchwoman’s appeal to me. “Can you help me to the address of one?”

“There are several firms of private detectives in London, if we are to judge from their advertisements,” I answered. “I have heard of Messrs Bell and White, of Holborn, spoken of as fairly good, but, of course, there are plenty of others equally good, or probably better.”

“Bell and White, Holborn. Yes, I will try them. Thank you so much for helping me. May I ask if you live in London?”

Seizing my cue, Madame von Auerbach promptly came to my assistance.

“I am very angry with Miss Gresham,” she averred. “Since she resigned her post as governess to the Duke of Solothurn’s children, she has hardly deigned to take any notice of the numerous friends she made in Germany. But I mean to make her stay a few days with me, now that she has come to see me.”

“Then you must bring her with you to my garden party,” said Madame Duchesne, and the invitation so cleverly angled for was accepted with a faint pretence of hesitation at the idea of inflicting myself upon the hospitality of a total stranger.

After Madame Duchesne’s departure I congratulated Madame von Auerbach very warmly upon her tact and presence of mind, and arranged to visit the garden party as her friend the next day.

In due course the interesting function was in full swing, and the fascinating hostess had quite a crowd of guests to look after. My “guarantor” had left me, at my own request, to my own devices. I wanted to look about me, and to note all that was going on, without being too much in evidence myself.

Presently Madame Duchesne approached me with a very mysterious air, and introduced a very handsome man to my notice. “Don’t be shocked,” she whispered, “But this is the private detective, Mr Bell. I communicated with him at once after leaving Madame von Auerbach’s yesterday, and he is here to watch that no pickpocket secures booty here. Isn’t it too dreadful to have to take such precautions? I will never give another party in London!”

I responded to this confidential communication with due sympathy, and gravely acknowledged the attention my new companion bestowed upon me for a few moments. And I had need of my gravity and presence of mind. For the man introduced to me was not my uncle, the detective. I knew that our firm had not been applied to by Madame Duchesne, in spite of her assertion to the contrary, and as this was certainly no one who had ever been in our office, I knew that certain suspicions that I had formed yesterday were likely to be verified. Since this stranger was certainly no detective, I concluded that he was merely posing as one for the sake of diverting suspicion from the offenders whom I was anxious to run to earth. The assumption that he was the associate and helpmate of the thieves was also a very natural one, although a glance at the lovely hostess and her dainty surroundings almost seemed to belie such a supposition.

But I knew that I was on the right track, and within the hour my vigilance was rewarded. The sham detective, whose pretended avocation had been disclosed to none but Madame von Auerbach and myself, sauntered from group to group, as if intent upon scrutinising their actions. His real object was to attach their jewellery, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him possess himself of a costly watch which Lady A. was wearing in somewhat careless fashion. Instant denunciation was not my intention. I mean to probe the matter to the root, and followed “Mr Bell’s” movements with apparent nonchalance. Presently he culled a couple of beautiful standard roses, and handed them to Madame Duchesne with a graceful compliment.

The thing was beautifully done, and none but a person keenly on guard would have noticed that the watch changed hands with the roses. This little comedy over, Madame sauntered towards the house, and, five minutes later, I came upon her, quite by accident, of course, just as she was relocking a dainty cabinet from which she had taken a fresh bottle of perfume, in the use of which she was very lavish.

There were two or three other people in Madame’s charming boudoir, among them being Madame von Auerbach, by whose side I seated myself with an air of sudden weakness. She was really startled by the development of events, but she had been previously cautioned, and played her part very well indeed, when I exclaimed that I felt dreadfully ill.

“What shall I do?” she cried. “I hope it is not one of your old attacks.”

“Yes, it is,” I whispered faintly. “Do send for my uncle. He is the only one who can help me.”

I was promptly placed on the couch, and dosed with all sorts of amateur remedies, pending the arrival of my uncle, who had been sent for in hot haste, and who, “entre nous,” was waiting with a police officer in private clothes for the expected urgent summons. No sooner did they appear than my indisposition vanished, and I astonished the bystanders by springing vigorously to my feet.

“Arrest Madame Duchesne,” I cried, “and her accomplice.” Pointing to the latter, I continued, “That man has stolen Lady A.’s watch, and it is locked in that cabinet.”

What a scene of confusion there was immediately! Not only Lady A., but several other people discovered that they had been robbed, and the cabinet was found to contain a great quantity of stolen valuables, among them being Mrs Bevan’s much-prized pendant.

My discovery was only made in the nick of time. In another twelve hours the birds would have flown, for the real Madame Duchesne, the lady from whom they had stolen the letters of introduction which had obtained them the entree to London society, had arrived in London that day. An accomplice had warned them of the fact, and as they knew that this garden party they were giving at the gorgeous house they had hired would be their last opportunity for some time, they had determined to make a large haul and decamp that same evening.

Luckily for many people, I was able to frustrate their intention. At present they are lodging in infinitely less luxurious quarters, and several members of the upper classes are much more careful than formerly as to whom they associate with by virtue of letters of introduction.

VIII. A Pattern of Virtue

I wonder how many people have stood on Waterloo Bridge, looking down upon the ever-moving river, and feeling themselves irresistibly attracted by the weird fascination of its cruel waters! But one cannot wonder at the eerie influence it exerts upon the miserable. One moment’s nerve – one plunge – one splash – a short struggle – and the stress and anguish of life are left behind!

And the Hereafter, what of it? It is truly an inscrutable puzzle. But the sudden recollection that an account of earthly doings may be required of us in another world has nerved many a desperate victim of misery to further endurance, and cheated Father Thames of much of his prey.

It was different with Lucy Markham. She was so desperate, so despairing, so wildly reckless, that nothing but the forcibly detaining arms which I flung around her would have prevented her from jumping into the river, and putting an end to a young life that had only seen seventeen summers.

“Let me go!” she shrieked. “How dare you hinder me? Can I not do as I like with myself?”

“No,” I panted, as I vainly strove to avoid the blows with which the frantic girl sought to release herself from my grasp. “I will not let you go until you promise that you will not put an end to your life.”

“Let me go!” she repeated. “I will do as I like! All the world has forsaken me, and I owe it no duty now. You can’t hold me much longer, and you shall see how soon I will end it all.”

“Never! If I don’t get your promise, I will scream for help, and then you will be locked up until your senses come back to you.”

My determination had its effect. She ceased to struggle, and looked solemnly at me with big, lovely eyes, to which the pale light of the moon seemed to give an uncanny glitter.

“Who are you?” she asked, “that you should so concern yourself about the fate of a stranger?”

“I am a friend of humanity, I hope.”

“Humanity! My God! How much humanity has my short life met with? And what sort of a specimen of humanity do you suppose me to be?”

“Unfortunate; that is evident. Not naturally depraved, I am sure. The victim of some scoundrel, I imagine. A fitting subject for help and counsel. That is certain.”

“Help and counsel! Oh, how I have prayed for them! and now it is too late!”

But I saw that I had conquered. The fierceness of the girl’s frenzy had passed, and the crisis in her fate was over. Poor child! how my heart bled for her! It is sad to witness despair at any time. But saddest of all is it to recognise the insatiate ghoul on the face of those to whom life should just be opening wide its portals of joy.

“Perhaps I can afford you help and counsel,” I said soothingly. “People would never find themselves utterly forsaken if they only knew to whom to apply in their need. Tell me about yourself. It will relieve you. What is your name, and where do you live?”

“My name,” was the bitter answer, “has been disgraced, and I will not add to my folly by involving my family in my disgrace. As for my home, it is a truly magnificent one. The air, the sky, and the roaring noises of civilisation are all mine to enjoy ad libitum. Why, I am quite rich!”

As the stranger made the last remark, she lost her self-restraint, and sobbed with hysterical violence. I felt very much relieved at this outburst, for I knew that though it would probably leave the girl faint and exhausted, it would also leave her in a more gentle and pliable frame of mind.

My judgment proved correct, and I was presently fully confided in. It was the old story of blind trust and deliberate betrayal, and is soon told. Lucy Markham had been well educated and delicately reared, but was without relatives or near friends at the time I found her. Her mother had died eighteen months before this. The penury consequent upon the previous death of the father had been partly met by disposing of the furniture and other effects, and when Lucy was left unprotected she was also quite without means.

But she meant to be very industrious and attentive to her duties, and quite expected to earn her living easily in London. So she migrated from the quiet little Surrey village where she had seen so much sorrow to seek and to find employment in one of the greatest hives of wickedness the world has ever known, to wit – London.

When her employer began to pay her little attentions, she felt flattered. When he requested her to observe the strictest secrecy regarding his stealthily bestowed attention, she believed his representation that her fellow employees would be spitefully jealous if they suspected which way the wind was blowing. When he took her to a pretty house, she never doubted his assertion that marriage would follow immediately upon her transference thither, and it was with a feeling of rapturous pride that she obeyed his injunctions to the letter, and allowed herself to be introduced to the servant as “Mrs Maynard,” “just for the look of the thing” as Mr Collinson said.

Asked what the servant would think of her being called “Mrs Collinson” soon, the specious schemer replied that the servant really knew all particulars, and that it was the neighbours for whose benefit the little temporary deception was intended.

But it soon transpired that Lucy herself was the object of deception. The self-styled Mr Maynard had ever some excuse ready for putting off the marriage until his victim felt herself hopelessly compromised. The servant was his willing tool; and when he got tired of his toys, he had no difficulty in getting the servant to help him further in his rascally work. The latter contrived to tell Lucy that all the neighbours already looked down upon her, and that she, being kept by a man to whom she was not married, was considered beyond the pale of respectability. Innocent the girl was. But who would believe her protestations to that effect? In the face of her apparent guilt, no one would do it.

“It’s no use crying over spilt milk,” said the servant. “The master will be kind and generous to you as long as he likes you. But you will have to give up such a notion as marrying so rich a man as he is. Take my advice, and get all you can out of him while you have the chance. He’ll soon fall in love with somebody else.”

Lucy’s heartbroken threat to expose her betrayer only provoked the derision of the servant.

“You would very likely get locked up for attempted blackmailing,” she said. “He has been too careful for such a greenhorn as you to circumvent him. He has never been here to see either you or the house except after dark, and nobody would believe you if you said that Mr Maynard was Mr Collinson. For he is a great man at church, and subscribes to everything. He is supposed to have nearly broken his heart when his wife died, and if ever anybody was looked upon by the world as a pattern of virtue, it is the man whom you, a bit of a shopgirl, expected to marry you. You would only get yourself laughed at and despised. So take my advice and don’t be fool enough to fly in the face of fortune yet.”

Even after these revelations the poor child could hardly believe in the utter baseness of her betrayer. But in her next interview with him she was soon convinced of the fact that the man whom she, in common with the rest of the world, regarded as a pattern of virtue, was, in reality, a monster of deceit and vice.

That night she escaped from her pretty home, and from then until I saved her from self-destruction she had undergone all manner of rebuffs, disappointments, and privations, which were enough to drive any other modest girl to the refuge of the wretched.

I found a temporary home for Lucy, and promised to put an end to her troubles in some way or other. Nor did I doubt my ability to do this. Lucy believed an appeal or a threat of exposure to be equally vain weapons to use against Mr Collinson, but I was more worldly wise, and more sure of success. I saw that as yet the girl was not fit to cope with the world, and I determined to make the “Pattern of Virtue” provide for her comfort. In this determination Lucy’s own guileless and simple nature aided me. Though tenacious of her honour, she did not recoil from the idea of compelling Mr Collinson to pay for his deception, as many a girl of more vigorous mind whose feelings had been outraged would have done.

I confess to feeling more slightly malicious when I went to interview the great draper and clothier, who soon found that he had a much more experienced woman than simple little Lucy to deal with. His dismay, when I quietly laid the whole array of facts before him and proved the strength of my position, was comical to witness. At first he tried to frighten me with his bogie reputation as a pattern of virtue. But I had several cards up my sleeve, and as I played them, one by one, he realised that if I were to make public exposure of only one-half the seedy facts I had been able, with the aid of my colleagues, to rake up against him, the world would know him in all his carnal hideousness, and a vast number of people would take their custom elsewhere.

Before I had done with him I convinced him of the expediency of providing liberally for Lucy for at least five years to come, and I declined to be satisfied with less than three hundred per annum for that period. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but he saw no other way out of the embroglio into which his scoundrelly nature had brought him, and I carried my point.

Lucy has a rare taste for music, and her special gifts lie in the direction of operatic composition. She is talented, industrious, and ambitious, and she is having the best tuition obtainable. Her whole soul is in her art, and there is little fear that she will hearken to the flattery which her sweet looks, gentle nature, and future prospects evoke. When her five years of study are ended there will be another star added to our galaxy of genius, and I shall be more thankful than ever that the opportunity was given me to rescue a despairing soul from a watery grave, and that I had the ability to make a Pattern of Virtue pay liberally for his vices.

IX. Miss Rankin's Rival

“If it is as I suspect, I will not marry him. You must use your utmost endeavours to find out the real state of the case, for it would drive me mad to discover that after all my care, I had become the dupe of a mercenary hypocrite.”

Such was the concluding portion of a communication made to me by Miss Iris Rankin, only child and sole heiress of the late John Graham Rankin, shipowner and millionaire.

The visit she paid me had its origin in a conversation which had taken place in her own drawing-room on the previous afternoon. A friend had paid her a call, and had regaled her with some gossip which had upset her considerably. This friend, Miss Cloudy, to wit, related how she, in the capacity of district visitor in connection with a very fashionable church, had met with a surprising experience.

“I was never so astonished in my life,” said Miss Cloudy, “as when I saw Mr Harold Gilbertson pass the open door of the room in which I was sitting talking to old Mrs Tweedy, one of the vicar’s parishioners. The old lady saw how surprised I was, and asked who had passed the door. In order that no mistake might be made I merely remarked that a young gentleman had gone upstairs, and that I thought it was somebody I knew.

“‘That is likely enough,’ said the old lady. ‘For though the Hansons are poor now, they haven’t always lived in a neighbourhood like this, and some of their old friends come to see them yet.’

“‘Who are the Hansons?’ I asked. ‘Do you know anything about them?’

“‘Nothing,’ I was told ‘except that they became poor when their father died. They are two very pretty young ladies, and I don’t mix much with the people hereabouts, though they have always a pleasant word for me. I’m not surprised that Mr Gilbertson is smitten, and that he comes to see them nearly every evening. I rather fancy that he is engaged to Miss Beatrice.’

“You see, Iris, it seems rather a cruel thing to tell you. But I know how you dread fortune-hunters, and I know also that you would be miserable with a man whose heart was given to another. It is much better to stop the mischief before it has become irrevocable.”

Miss Rankin fully endorsed the opinion thus expressed, although it was a bitter experience for her to be told that the man to whom she had in all confidence given her heart was merely courting her fortune, while his love was bestowed elsewhere.

Still, she never doubted the honesty of purpose of her friend, but was wise enough to subject her to a series of searching questions ere she was fully convinced that there was apparently a mistake. Even then she determined to have additional testimony before she decided upon condemning and humiliating the man to whom she was to have been married in one short month.

He was very handsome and very clever. But his income had hitherto not kept pace with his apparent popularity as a journalist, and his profession afforded him an easy excuse for spending his evenings away from his fiancée.