Читать книгу The White Glove - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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Utterly prostrate for the moment, Clifford walked along the road like a man in a dream. A little time ago he had felt so strong and self-reliant, now he was plunged in a deeper gloom than ever. His mind began to clear presently, and he saw things in their true light. The cleverness and boldness and audacity of the gang he had encountered almost paralysed him. It was impossible to believe for a moment that a Cabinet Minister of high repute was in league with these scoundrels. Suppose he went to the police and told his tale, and asked them to arrest the man who called himself Michel Rayne! Who would believe his story that he had been lured into the house of Lord Arlingbury, and drugged there, ay, and left to die a horrible death! The authorities would laugh at the whole thing. And if he had been suffocated by that poisonous gas, why the discovery of his dead body would merely have added one more to London's unsolved mysteries.

It was not the slightest use in turning in that direction. Neither could there be any object at present in going to Sir Arthur Barrymore and proclaiming his utter and miserable failure. Clifford longed to get away somewhere and think—the vastness of London appalled him. He would have given something now for his modest suit of tweeds, but that was out of the question. There was only one thing to do, and that was a desperate one.

"I'll walk home," Clifford muttered as he set his teeth together. "I suppose I shall get there some time tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps Madeline will find a way out. For myself, I am utterly and entirely beaten."

Indeed, he was more beaten than he had recognised. All the troubles and privations of late had told upon him, his head was still muddled and confused from the drug and the fumes of the poisonous gas. Presently Clifford was walking along in a kind of vacant dream, then he suddenly realised the fact that he was sitting on a doorstep quite incapable of going any further.

This would never do, he told himself. The spectacle of a man in evening dress sitting on a doorstep would sooner or later certainly attract the attentions of a passing policeman, and awkward questions might be asked. A belated little street arab eyed him hopelessly. If he had only a little money, and fourpence to get a bed.

Then suddenly he rose and staggered across the street. The ragged small boy began to run, he was just a shade too quick for Clifford, and his grimy paw closed on the two-shilling piece that had been glittering in the gutter.

"You get along," the small waif said defiantly, "a toff like you trying to do a pore little bloke out of his luck. What do yer want money for?"

"My good lad," Clifford said unsteadily. "The poorest wretch in London needs that bit of money no more desperately than I do."

Clifford turned away half-ashamed of the words literally forced from him. The urchin regarded him with a searching glance. The suspicions evidently passed away.

"He ain't coddlin'," the boy said. "S'help me if he ain't tellin' the truth. Well, well. Look 'ee, mister, let's go halves. It you'd been one o' hus, halves it would have been. Yer down on yer luck, and that's a thing as always touches the spot with Ikey Brown, which that's me. Come as far as my coffee-stall. Button yer coat and turn yer collar up, 'cause there ain't no dukes or retired publicans as patronises my barrow."

Clifford followed quite aimlessly. He seemed to care very little what he did or where he went now. He found himself presently eating bread and butter and drinking coffee with a relish. As he and his queer little companion turned away the latter thrust tenpence into his hand.

"That's your share, mister," he said. "Two slices and two cups is fourpence, ain't it? So you gets your exchequer blown up to the extent of the browns."

Clifford burst into a bitter little laugh as he dropped the money into his pocket.

"You are a good little chap," he said; "and if any luck comes my way this is going to be the best night's work you ever did. You say your name is Ikey Brown? Where can I find you if I want you?"

"Well, about here same time every night. Making my way home after selling my papers. And now where are yer going to doss to-night?"

"The problem is one utterly beyond my solution, Ikey."

"Thought so," Ikey cried triumphantly. "Well, ye can't go where I do, and there's no error about that. There's a place somewhere close by what caters for people as is down on their lucky. A clean bed for fourpence, and no questions asked. Sort of young Rowton House. Ye meets gents there, and ye meets thieves. But the place is clean. Been there myself once or twice. Come this way, and I'll put ye right."

Ikey was not far wrong in his estimate. The place was clean and sweet; there were rows of beds in one big ward for the men, an another for the women, as Ikey said. Clifford paid his fourpence to a man who looked like a retired policeman, who informed that if he wished to read or write a letter he would find a fire in the common room.

"So long," Ikey said, with a bird like jerk of his head. "See yer agen, most like."

"You may be certain of that," Clifford muttered. "We shall meet again, Ikey. Good-night."

Utterly exhausted, Clifford dropped into a chair in the common room. The place was bare, but very clean, the walls were white and fair. A score or two of people were there—men and women of every class. Clifford recognised the criminal and the woman with the hideous past behind her, the broken-down gentleman and the lady who had known better days; nobody took the slightest notice of him. Some were reading and some were writing letters. Clifford drew himself to his feet again in order to go to bed. In the doorway he stood aside to let a woman pass. As the gaslight streamed on her face he recognised the girl called Myra. He was not in the least surprised; he was past all emotion now.

"No getting away from me, Miss Myra," he said. "But then perhaps you had some good reason for following me here."

"No, I did not follow you," the girl said, turning. "It is what is called coincidence. It is really a kindly providence finding me with a friend."

"As to your friend, you may be certain," Clifford smiled. "But why do you come here? You don't mean to say that you propose to sleep here! This is hardly the place for one who aspires to know so great a society lady as Mrs. Levi Raby. Won't you come and confide in me? I am certain that we are companions in misfortune."

The girl hesitated no longer. She had partly hidden her face in a veil. At the far end of the room were two chairs, where it was possible to talk without being overheard.

"I came to look for somebody," Myra said. "I found that a man comes here at times who can do you and one I love a service. But he is not here, and I am going away when you come out. Did they rob you tonight?"

"They took everything I had, to the extent of £500."

"Oh, shameful! I did not think that they had gone so far as that. Let me tell you something, Mr. Marsh. The man called Michel Rayne is my brother. It is a most shameful confession, but he is one of the greatest scoundrels on earth. I stay with him for a purpose of my own, to help one whom I dearly love."

"But what were they doing in Lady Arlingbury's house to-night?"

"I cannot tell. I had no notion whose house it was. I was told to call for my brother at that address, and a footman let me in. Sometimes Mr. Sefton seems to be rich, at others he is poor as the rest of them. If my brother had used his wonderful talents honestly he would be a millionaire by this time. But there you are, Mr. Marsh, I heard you say to-night that you were fully acquainted with diamonds and the South African mines. Did you ever hear of a place at Cape Town called the Breakwater?"

"Of course. It is the place where they send criminals convicted of dealing illicitly in diamonds."

"So I understood. Well, my brother and the desperate lot you encountered to-night were for two years engaged in that trade. My lover had gone out with every prospect of making a fortune in the same line, for he had obtained a position of trust with the great De Beers Company. But my brother used him as a cloak and a foil, and when exposure came, as it was bound to do, my lover was the scapegoat, and he got a sentence of ten years on the Breakwater. To get to the bottom of that vile conspiracy is why I stay with my brother and share his varied fortunes."

"It is a sad case," Clifford murmured. "Do you ever hear from your lover?"

"Oh, yes. He escaped. He escaped by the merest accident. He is in England, living in a cottage in the heart of Ashdown Forest. I dare not write to him, I dare not see him, because I feel quite sure that my brother suspects. The poor broken-down gentleman that I use as a go-between comes here sometimes to sleep, hence my appearance. I pretend to take an interest in slum life; but it is a mere pretence. Now could you send a note to my lover for me?"

"Most assuredly," Clifford said. "More especially as I am on the borders of Ashdown myself. Give it me, and I will deliver it in person. And now, tell me, why did those men have me at that house to-night and treat you as they did?"

Myra raised her hands hopelessly, as if the problem were utterly beyond the power of solution.

"Who can tell what those crooked minds have in view?" she said. "In some subtle way they must have recognised the fact that you were an enemy of theirs."

"Well, that's perfectly true," Clifford said frankly. "I have to hunt them down to expose their schemes. But how could they have guessed it, how could they possibly have known? A few hours ago I was an utter stranger as to their very names; only to-night I received my instructions. And yet in a mysterious manner they found me out. Up to now they have all the best of it, but I swear that the next trick shall be mine. Help me, Miss Myra, and I will help you. It is ill work to ask a girl to plot against her brother."

"I had almost forgotten the relationship," said Myra bitterly. "He robbed me of my lover, and would force the attention of that hateful Sefton on me; he is a blight on society. Anybody that man comes in contact with he ruins. Why then should I hesitate? Am I to see him going on year after year, dealing misery all round, and say nothing because the same blood runs in the veins of us both?"

Clifford was silent for a little time. His companion spoke to him twice before he heard her.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "but I am utterly worn out. I am not the man I was."

"And I beg your pardon," Myra said. "I am very selfish; grief is always selfish, I think. I am keeping you talking when you need rest so badly. Good-night, my friend, good-night, and God bless you for all your kindness to a poor girl like me."