Voices in the Night Part 62

It had nearly killed him to deny the owners.h.i.+p of the casket; but he had denied it. There was literally nothing else to be done, with that spring-lock and the key in his possession.

So when the police took it away in order to find the rightful owner, he had gone into his room at the hotel--it was next the one to which Mrs.

Chris had been taken--and shaken his fist at her through the wall, and sworn horribly not only at his own loss, but at the gain of others, which, with his experience in jewel-jobbing, he knew would follow.

And it did; for no sooner was the casket filed open by the police and its contents made known by a list, than owners began to crop up--crowds of them.

But it was when an a.s.sistant police-officer at the club, thinking to rouse him from his general despondency by putting him on the track of a good thing, mentioned that there had been a ruby in the casket which he really ought to get hold of; a ruby that had been claimed, on irrefragable evidence, as an heirloom by a peculiarly impecunious member of the Royal Family, from whom he could no doubt get it cheap without much trouble--it was then that Mr. Lucanaster had fled from his fellows, and actually wept to think that after three years' hard scheming he had bought that ruby at something like its real value.

That had been the worst blow; but there had been similar ones, and quite a large number of the pensioners invested in new c.o.c.ks and quails and went about with cheerful countenances.

Another result was that Grace Arbuthnot, as she stood one day re-threading the four pearls which Sobrai Begum had brought to Miss Leezie's house on to the string that had been found in the casket, declared that it was just like the last chapter in a novel. Everything was clearing itself up--her face certainly warranted the remark--and rounding itself off neatly for the end. She thought, as she spoke, of the lost letter, the recovery of which, as Jerry's 'Secret Despatches,'

had seemed so mysterious, until the child had told her quite simply that he had found the envelope in a bush in the garden--flung away most likely by the thief as valueless--and had kept it to play with, because some one 'must have hidden it, you know, an' didn't want people to wead it, so it was secwet.'

But she did not speak of this; she only said that she had never expected to see her pearls again, yet here they were, with only one a-missing--her dear old pearls! She held them up to her white throat and smiled, thinking of the many happy hours she had spent with their touch upon her.

If any one had told her that that was the first time they _had_ touched a slender white throat, and that the last time a woman had worn them, they had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from a slender brown one and flung in the dust from scorn of the hours they had brought to a bride, she would not have believed it.

Not her pearls! Whose else could they be? Had not even Mr. Lucanaster given his opinion on them as an expert? for even that agony had not been spared to the unfortunate man.

'Yes,' answered Sir George, who had stopped his writing to admire his wife and think how happy and handsome she looked, and how glad he was for her sake that the strain and anxiety was over, as it seemed to be, 'it is rather curious how everything is falling into line. It is always the "first step" in India, of course, and so it was only to be expected that things would settle into march time after a bit. But Jehan Aziz's death and this finding of the pearls has disposed of that story, for Burkut Ali, the doctors say, isn't likely to live, and the girl is certainly a thief, whatever else she may be. And it disposes of the pestilent fellow who wrote that threatening letter also.' He paused. 'Then Kenyon was only telling me this morning what an extraordinary quieting effect that incident in _Mai_ Kali's temple has had. Of course, we haven't got to the bottom of it quite. No one will give evidence, because of the miracle; but the fact remains that the prophecy was fulfilled.'

'Then there is the bridge business,' said Grace thoughtfully. 'Has anything new cropped up?'

Sir George shook his head, then frowned. 'Not about that, beyond the fact that the engine-driver is quite certain he heard singing, and that of course points to the loafer Ellison; and as he was Davenant's foreman of works, the two were likely to be together. But--but,' he frowned again, and let his hand busy itself impatiently with a pile of papers, 'there is something else. You know, we wondered how the troops got here so soon. Well, there is something odd about the telegram.

Times don't tally, and it seems another telegram was sent direct to the station to detain the up-mail, pending orders. It came in--"urgent"--just as the train was in, and the station-master--he is a native--got flurried and sent up, with the telegram we know about--at least I suppose so--to cantonments for further orders, when, of course, the commandant jumped at the chance. And now the station-master can't find the wire, isn't sure if it ever was written out, as he was in the telegraph-office at the time waiting for the up-signals. And there is no trace of it this end. Nothing but the telegraph--form I gave Kenyon to fill in, and which he sent to the railway-office. But there, again, the time doesn't tally with Kenyon's recollections, and though the order is identical the wording is slightly different, for he put in something about stopping the night-mail, which isn't in the wire the commandant received. That part seems to have been made into a separate order and construed into the up-mail. But that may be due to the _baboos_; a couple of greater fools never were. They seem to know nothing; especially the one here. Kenyon says the clocks may have been wrong; but I can't help wondering. Davenant seems to have known something, and he was seen at his works after dusk; if he had been another sort of fellow--but it is impossible! There isn't one Englishman in a thousand, let alone a native, who would take such a responsibility. I wouldn't, and I don't know any one who would; at any rate who would, and then keep quiet when it was successful--for it was!

It made all the difference: as I've told Kenyon, he has the entire credit; but for him we should have had a row.'

'But if you hadn't given him the telegram----'

Sir George shook his head in honest obstinacy. 'I never meant it to be used; I didn't believe in the danger. As I told Mr. Raymond, he was right, and I was wrong; so that is an end of it, my dear.'

He seemed quite satisfied, especially when his wife stooped suddenly, and kissed the top of his head; though he wondered, as she left the room, if he was really getting a little bald! not so much because her lips had thrilled him, but because he was observant enough to have noticed that a partially bald head is provocative of wifely kissing.

Still, even that evil had to be faced in the cause of empire, and so the honest gentleman took up his pen and continued the report of recent affairs which he was writing, and in which the credit of saving the situation was given unstintingly not to himself, but to others; for Sir George was a gentleman.

Grace, however, though she was a lady, and despite that kiss of approval, felt a trifle annoyed. It was very nice of George to minimise his part in the business; yet when all was said and done, he _had_ consented to give the order--consented almost in defiance of the official programme. The more she thought of it, the more aggrieved she felt for him; and so, when she found Lesley alone in the school-room, she sought her sympathy, explained the whole position at great length, and wound up by the appeal--

'Now, do you see what right Mr. Kenyon has to all the credit?'

Lesley had so far managed to keep a calm sough without much difficulty; at the present moment, however, something seemed wrong with her work, for she was very busy with it at the window.

'No!' she said at last, 'I don't!' and then she repeated the remark with palpable resentment: 'Certainly not! He had nothing to do with it--nothing at all.'

Grace looked in her direction with dubious curiosity.

'You don't mean, do you,' she asked, 'that you think any one else----'

'I don't think anything at all,' interrupted the girl hurriedly. 'I only say that Mr. Kenyon didn't--I mean that he isn't the right person to praise.'

But Lady Arbuthnot was not to be put off. 'Because that really is quite absurd, as I told George. And he admitted that he did not know of any one--not a single man who would have taken such a grave responsibility.

Now do you? Tell the truth, Lesley! do you know any one?'

'Perhaps there was more than a single man,' suggested Lesley evasively, the knot in her thread becoming extremely troublesome.

Grace, from her chair, gave an irritated glance towards the window. 'My dear Lesley! you are not often so--so precise! As if it mattered to my argument if there were one or two! I wish you would leave off threading your needle, or whatever it is, and come here and be a little sympathetic. It means so much to _me_, you know--so, if you wish it, we will say two! Do you know of any two people who could and would do such a thing?'

Lesley folded up her work with great method, but remained where she was.

'Why should we complicate matters by saying two?' she asked pugnaciously. 'And after all, it wasn't--I mean it would not be such a very big thing. There must be lots of people in the world who could do it. Just think! even among the men one knows.'

'People who could, and would!' echoed Grace in the same tone. 'No! I don't know any one!' She paused, and added a trifle bitterly: 'I know one, who _could_; but then he wouldn't!--Mr. Raymond.'

'Mr. Raymond! Why should you say he wouldn't?' asked the girl swiftly.

'Why----?'

'You needn't be so fierce, Lesley!' interrupted Grace, with a little hard laugh, 'though you don't think him half bad. For many reasons!

No--he wouldn't help--us--in a thing like that--not he!'

'That isn't fair,' cried Lesley in a flame. 'If you knew----' She paused, but was too late.

'If I knew what?' asked Lady Arbuthnot, rising and coming to the window; then standing before the girl, to say, after a pause: 'You will have to tell me, you know, Lesley; you have started me, and I'm not a fool. And of course I know--Jerry told me--that Mr. Raymond had come to cycle with you that evening--that _that_ was why you were so late; but I said nothing, because I thought it was only----'

'I don't care what you thought,' interrupted Lesley angrily; 'and I won't tell you anything unless you promise not to speak----'

'I will promise not to tell any one who ought not to know that I know,'

put in Grace Arbuthnot proudly. 'I won't promise more----'

'And who wants more?' cried the girl hotly. 'Of course, if people ought to know, they must know. That is the only reason why I'm telling you. I didn't mean to, but if you can be so--so unjust, it is only right that you should know the truth.'

'I can judge of that for myself when you have told me, so you needn't waste time,' retorted Grace.

A sudden antagonism had sprung up between the two women of which they were both aware, of which they were both vaguely ashamed, but which they could not ignore.

'Thank you!' said Grace, with chill dignity when the recital was over.

'You were right to tell me. I will apologise to Mr. Raymond.'

'To Mr. Raymond!' echoed Lesley, carried beyond her resentment by eagerness. 'No! Lady Arbuthnot--not to him. He is not one of the people who ought to know that you know!'

'May I ask why?'

For an instant it seemed as if Lesley would have matched Grace in resentment, and then suddenly she held out her hands in swift appeal.

'Oh! don't be angry, please! but surely after what happened between you--I cant help knowing that, can I?--you owe Mr. Raymond something--you ought to let him have this--this revenge to himself--just to take the sting away.'

'To himself!' echoed Grace scornfully. 'I presume you mean to himself and you----'

'Oh! you may be as nasty as you like about that,' interrupted Lesley hotly, 'but I know I am right. It would only be a fresh tie between you--a new sentiment.'

Lady Arbuthnot flushed up to the eyes. 'Really, Lesley! you pa.s.s bounds! You speak as if I wanted to--to clutch at Mr. Raymond, when I should only be too glad if---- However, as you say, my apology is a triviality. Sir George shall----'