Читать книгу A Crime On Canvas - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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THE discovery worried Ethel more than she cared to admit. Why should other people have suddenly taken an interest in the welfare of Lawrence Hatton after he appeared to be absolutely forgotten? And Ethel would have been less troubled in her mind if these inquiries had not been of quite so recent a date. That somebody had been rummaging amongst the newspapers within the last few weeks was evident; indeed, the fragment torn from the Parisian letter showed as much, to say nothing of the postcard which was still more startling evidence of a recent interference with the contents of the French cabinet.

Doubtless, whoever had been prying here had left the postcard by accident amongst the letters. Ethel turned it over and saw that the stamp indicated a postmark not much more than three weeks old. She took the card to the light and studied it in vain with a view to making out the postmark of the office in England to which it was delivered after being posted in Paris. But the mark was blurred and faint, and even Ethel's sharp eyes could make nothing of it. If she was to find anything out it would certainly not be here. Still she had ascertained the important fact that Lawrence Hatton's release from prison was only a matter of hours and that something would have to be done speedily if she were to see him.

Sir Arthur listened with more or less interest to all that Ethel had to say. His face brightened and his interest grew keener as Ethel produced the postcard for his inspection.

"You see what this is," the girl explained. "This was written by some one in Paris to somebody in London who was anxious to ascertain Lawrence Hatton's address. I am glad that I found it, because it will probably be more useful to me than to the person to whom it was written. But it makes me very uneasy. I can understand how some friend of Mr. Hatton's in London desired to know his whereabouts. But why this secrecy? Why should the card have been addressed to a number at the post office? All this points to mystery. But I should have thought it a good deal safer to put the letter in an envelope in the ordinary way. Don't you think so?"

"I should have done so," Blantyre said thoughtfully. "Do you mean to say that you found this postcard amongst those papers? It seems incredible."

"Incredible or not, it is a fact," Ethel said. "I not only found the postcard there, but also the scrap of letter paper which you have in your hand. And yet you told me that the cabinet hadn't been opened for two or three years, and that the lock is an extraordinarily complicated one."

"Well, is it not?" Blantyre retorted. "You had the keys and can judge. So far as I am concerned, that cabinet has not been opened for nearly three years, and the key has never been out of my possession. But we have too much to think about to worry over a small matter like this. I dare say it will be explained in good time. And, at any rate, you have acquired information through this third person which you would never have discovered for yourself."

"That is true enough," Ethel observed. "And now, as you see for yourself, there is no time to be lost if we are to avail ourselves of the services of Lawrence Hatton. One of us must go to town without delay, so as to be at Wandsworth Prison to meet our unfortunate friend."

"We shall be in town," Sir Arthur said with an unwonted outburst of energy. "I believe I must be in London to-morrow, though I cannot speak definitely till later in the day. Hitherto, on these secret excursions I have gone entirely alone. But the time has come when I must take you into my confidence. I have been thinking over what happened yesterday, and I fancy that you will be able to help me. If I am right then you shall know everything. But for the present you must be content to do what I tell you and ask no questions. And now I shall be glad if you will leave me, for I have a great deal of work to do."

Ethel asked no further questions. She was satisfied with events as far as they had gone. Things were moving at last. The monotony of life was being broken up and anything would be better than the existence which had been her portion at Glenallan for the past few years. The day no longer dragged slowly and wearily as it had done in the past, and Ethel found plenty to do to occupy her attention.

Evening came at length. The first bell had gone for dinner and Ethel was upstairs in her room getting ready for the elaborate ceremony of the evening meal. She waited just a moment for the gong to go again. Her hand was already on the door-knob, when a servant knocked and handed her a note from her grandfather. There were only two or three lines to say that an acquaintance had come in to dinner and that Sir Arthur was anxious that his granddaughter should not meet the newcomer. Any slight excuse would be sufficient to meet what he suggested. Perhaps she might plead the conventional headache so that dinner might be sent up to her own room. The note was in the form of a suggestion. But, at the same time, Ethel could read a command behind it which she did not hesitate to obey. She saw, too, that the letter had been scribbled hurriedly, and that the handwriting was far from steady.

Ethel crushed a desire to ask the servant who the stranger was. Then she turned to him quietly and gave him a message which she desired him to convey to Sir Arthur.

"Tell your master I am much obliged," she said, "but I hope he will excuse me this evening. You may inform him that I have a headache, and that, if he does not mind, I propose to take my dinner in my own room. I think that is all."

The well-trained servant bowed and went his way, and so the evening dragged along. There was nothing in the fact that Ethel was dining in her own room; indeed, she had done the same thing many times before. She dismissed her maid and tried to interest herself in a book. As she sat there with the door ajar she could hear from time to time the sound of voices below, until, gradually, the house grew still and dark as the servants one by one retired to bed. Presently the front door clanged sullenly, and a moment or two later some one knocked gently at Ethel's door, and Sir Arthur Blantyre's pale, anxious face appeared.

"I am glad you fell in with my suggestion to-night," he murmured. "It would have been almost fatal to my plans if you had met the man who insisted upon thrusting his company upon me. But there is no time to be lost in talking. When can you be ready to start for London?"

"To-morrow?" Ethel faltered.

"No, no," Blantyre said fiercely, "I mean now. We must go within the next half-hour. The motor will be ready by that time, and I never take more than one trusted servant with me. Come, surely it won't take you long to pack. At the most we shall not be more than two or three days away, and during that time we are not likely to see anybody, or to have a single moment for pleasure. Put a few of your plainest things together and join me in the hall in half an hour at the very latest. This is the only way we can be in time to intercept Lawrence Hatton."

The name roused Ethel to a sense of her responsibilities. Her courage was rising and she was looking forward to the adventure. A little later it seemed almost like a dream, the flitting from the house a vague unreality. It was so strange to creep away from Glenallan as if they had been thieves in the night, to pass swiftly and silently along the dark country road, until at length the lights of London began to loom in the distance.

To what part they were bound Ethel neither knew nor cared. She was moving rapidly and swiftly and events were beginning to develop. She expressed no surprise when the car pulled up before a handsome house and Blantyre led the way in with the air of a man who is perfectly at home. This was no time to ask questions, the journey had tired Ethel, and all she wanted was to get to bed without delay. There would be time enough to investigate in the morning, and she had plenty of work to do, plenty to occupy her.

Morning came at length and Ethel turned out of the house, her face towards London, filled with a certain resolution. If her heart were beating quicker than usual she did not seem to be conscious of it. She was going to meet the old friend and companion whom she had not seen for years. She wondered if he would recognize her, if he would be able to discern in her handsome self anything of the girl who, at one time, had been his constant companion.

By and by she stood before the grim walls of the great prison, waiting for the doors to open. Nine o'clock she had been told was the time at which the prisoners were released who had served their sentences. But nine o'clock came and went and there was no sign of life beyond those frowning doors. A warder strode across the square at length and Ethel addressed him timidly. She was too late. The discharged prisoners had left an hour before.