Читать книгу The Leopard's Spots - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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Stagg looked just a little anxious.

"Eh, what's that? what's that?" he asked. "Some disappointed client, no doubt. Really, my dear child, the amount of human ingratitude one encounters is most discouraging. When did the letter come? This morning's batch? Well, read it out; I'd like to hear it."

Stella proceeded to read as follows:

21 Porchester-place,

May 19, 19—.

"Dear Sir,

"I venture to address you on a little matter which I am sanguine that you will find interesting. Now, it so happens that a friend of mine, a lady friend in straitened circumstances and a widow of an officer in his Majesty's service, expressed some little time ago a natural desire to increase her very limited income. I am sure that a gentleman of the experience of Mr. Frank Fair will bear me out when I say that the case presents no phenomenal features. My dear sir, the world is crammed with sanguine unworldly widows (not to say orphans) who are filled with an eager longing to expand the elasticity of their scanty sovereigns. Otherwise, how would so many respectable gentlemen in spotless white waistcoats who permeate the city be able to afford Rolls-Royce cars and send their promising progeny to Public schools and the University? But I need not enlarge upon that. That is a subject to which Mr. Frank Fair has probably devoted more time than I have, and, believe me, as city editor and part proprietor of the 'Searchlight,' I am not altogether a child in such matters.

"Now, my lady friend, instead of coming to me, as she ought to have done, sold out a thousand pounds of Great Western preferred stock and went off adventuring in the city. She managed, by the interposition of Providence, to escape from the clutches of at least two of the aforesaid white-waistcoated gentlemen, and then, being still desirous of further exploits in the financial field, she conceived the brilliant idea of writing to Frank Fair. I suppose she had seen that distinguished philanthropist's advertisement in the papers.

"In reply Mr. Fair wrote a letter filled with the noblest sentiments and paternal advice. He strongly advised the lady to put her money back where she took it from, which, of course, was exceedingly fine of him, but he went on to say if it was necessary to her health that she should have what city circles call a flutter, he gave her the names of half a dozen firms which he ventured to recommend. And, strange to say, the next morning came a circular from a modest firm of outside brokers recommending a particular stock. Need I tell so astute a gentleman as Mr. Frank Fair what happened. The thousand pounds is no more, at least, so far as its original proprietor is concerned, and I strongly suspect that the whole of that sum found its way into the pockets of a firm that only exists to put good things in the way of idly-greedy people who are looking for a hundred per cent. interest on their money."

"Oh, this is monstrous, uncle," Stella cried. "One would almost think that the writer was sarcastic."

"Oh, not at all, my dear, not at all," Stagg said genially. "Evidently a man who fancies himself as a word painter. But pray proceed."

"Now, as the unfortunate lady is a friend of mine, and as I know something of the City, I have made it my business to thoroughly investigate the matter. It has taken me a couple of months to get to the bottom of it, but I assure you that I have done so. And in my opinion, and I may say in the opinion of an eminent King's Counsel, there are grounds for prosecution. But I am not vindictive. I have something more to do besides wasting my time on a lot of fools whose main anxiety seems to be separated from their money, and if I can get my friend's thousand pounds back again I shall be perfectly satisfied and say no more about the matter.

"To bring this about I cordially invite the co-operation of Mr. Frank Fair, otherwise Mr. Montagu Stagg, of Minchin, in the County Middlesex. I shall be at home this evening between ten and twelve, and if the aforesaid 'gentlemen' care to give me a call, a warm welcome awaits them. I really think that you will not fail me.

"Yours faithfully, Everard Stokes."

"What name did you say?" Stagg cried. "Oh, Everard Stokes. Quite a funny chap in his way, my dear, and a real good sort, though eccentric, very eccentric. He's a journalist and part proprietor of the paper he speaks of. Upon my word, I have a great mind to go and see him. Yes, I will. In which case I shall have to dine in town. Of course, my dear if I can do anything to get this poor woman's money back, I must."

Stagg spoke lightly enough, but all the boyishness left that smooth round face of his, and his eyes grew anxious enough once he found himself alone.

For, sooth to say, Montagu Stagg was in an exceedingly tight place. He had always known that sooner or later the fierce light of publicity must beat upon the dual identity of Montagu Stagg and Frank Fair, but a calamity like this had not come within his range of vision.

For every member of his particular tribe loathed and dreaded the name of Everard Stokes. To begin with, he knew every trick and turn in City rascality. He was a man of large means and particularly sardonic humour, and his great delight was in the running down of the Fairs and the Staggs wherever he found them and destroying them without mercy. By some means or another he had got to the bottom of Stagg's duel identity, and it needed no great foresight on Stagg's part to know that unless that thousand pounds was produced at once disaster would follow.

And just at that moment Stagg would have found it difficult to put his hands on a thousand pence. Things had not been going too well lately, and Stagg was not the sort of man to curtail his expenditure whatever happened. So, therefore, he decided to go up to town and call upon this doughty foe. Perhaps he could arrange a compromise, perhaps he could gain time. And if he could, then the tragedy would be averted.

He was very disturbed and uneasy in his mind, but that did not prevent him from putting in a couple of hours in his dingy city office, and dining discreetly and comfortably at the Ritz afterwards. He looked into a music hall for an hour or so, and then, as the clocks were striking eleven, made his way leisurely through the West End streets in the direction of Porchester-place. He loved prowling about the West End in the dark, declaring that he shared Charles Dickens's peculiarity in that direction, and more than once on these nocturnal ramblings he had come into possession of information which subsequently he had turned to considerable advantage. He reached his destination at length and then paused, realising that he was uncertain at which number in Porchester-place his enemy resided. But, at any rate, it was 21 or 22, so, after a moment's hesitation, he walked up the steps of 21 and rang the bell.

A few moments passed, then he rang again. It seemed to him that he could hear the sounds of shuffling feet on the other side of the door, then the fall of a heavy body, and after that silence again. He rang once more, this time impatiently, then a brilliant light shone over the fanlight, the door was thrown open and a tall, handsome woman in evening dress almost fell into his arms. He could see that her face was pale and agitated and deadly white under the powder and make up, but for all that there was no denying her attractions.

"Thank God you have come, doctor!" she gasped. "I had not expected you quite so soon. Your man told me on the telephone you wouldn't be home till after twelve. But come inside, do, and Heaven grant you are not too late."

Stagg followed without a moment's hesitation.