Читать книгу The Sentence of the Court - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Gilray shrugged his shoulders almost indifferently. He was getting accustomed to these dramatic episodes. Besides, he had nothing to be afraid of. Let him only get his money and he would not trouble this amazing household again. All the same, there was something exceedingly striking about this remarkable old man. He might have come straight from a stage setting, so strange was his aspect.

He was 'Gaspard' and 'Shylock' in one—tall and lean, and high of forehead from which the leonine grey hair was tossed carelessly back; he had thin, dark, hatchet-like features, and eyes that glowed like stars behind his gold-rimmed glasses. His keen, clever face was lined and wrinkled, his skin the colour of old parchment. To strengthen the likeness to the classical example of miserliness, he wore a kind of dressing-gown of velvet, and on his head was a skull-cap of the same material.

Surely he must be part and parcel of some stage production, Gilray thought. The room was almost the exact counterpart of the scene where Gaspard gloats over his treasures. The walls were almost bare, the carpet was thick with dust, there was a table and two kitchen chairs beside the great desk that stood under one of the windows. But the walls were not quite bare, for here and there a picture had been hung, and on the far side was a genuine Commonwealth chair or two. That the pictures were things of price Gilray knew at a glance—there were very few frequenters of Christies' rooms who were better judges than he.

"What are you doing here?" the old man asked again. "Who are you, and what do you want? How did you get into the house? And who let you in? And how much?"

"Three hundred pounds in gold."

"Too much. Far too much. My good man, where am I to get it from? I am poor, miserably, hopelessly poor. The fools outside think I'm rich. They grumble when I ask for my interest, they treat me violently. You know that I am poor."

He asked the question in a voice that was almost pleading. His keen eyes seemed to flicker over Gilray's face. There was a cunning here nearly allied to madness. Beyond question this old man was enormously rich. He was a miser, the garnering of gold was a mania with him. Obviously the type of madman to be humoured.

"There is some mistake," Gilray said. "I am an oculist. I practise in Hurley-street. The name of Gilray may be known to you. I came here to-night with Dr. Vorley to see a patient. I was," he said, "to have a fee of three hundred guineas——"

"Pounds curse him," the old man snarled. "He has no consideration for my poverty. And three hundred pounds is a deal of money. I am a poor old man, sir, a miserable old man——"

"I do not doubt it for a moment," Gilray said, curtly. "That is not the point. I came here on a distinct understanding, and I have done my work. I may say without boasting that I have been perfectly successful. Dr. Vorley sent me here to get my fee. Where is it?"

The old man's eye blazed dangerously. He shook with the passion that possessed him.

"Have a care, have a care," he said hoarsely. "I know you, Dr. Gilray. Bills, bills, and yet more bills. Papers in the hands of the Jews renewed over and over again. Betting and gambling. Cigars at six pounds the hundred, and champagne at a guinea a bottle. And yet representing one of the most Puritan consequencies in England. Pah! I could ruin you to-morrow."

"Still, I have earned my money," Gilray protested.

"True, true! I take your word for it. You have done a great service, and you shall have your money. But it's a great wrench, a very great wrench."

The old man raised the flap of his desk as if there were something inside it struggling to escape from him and groped for a wash-leather bag. With a longing look, the look of a mother saying farewell to a child, he handed the round leather bag heavy with gold to Gilray.

"You will find the contents quite correct," he said. "If you like to count them——"

With a wave of his hand Gilray dropped the bag into his pocket. The old man chuckled. Then he frowned as he saw Gilray looking intently at a triangular object on the table.

It was a frame in gold and rubies in three panels, each panel containing a miniature portrait of some beautiful woman. There was no need for Gilray to ask whose work it was—the softness, the velvety smoothness and exquisite colouring proclaimed the artist to the connoisseur.

"You are interested in these pretty toys?" the old man asked carelessly.

"I cannot resist them," Gilray admitted, "It is one of my vices. And Cosway's work specially appeals to me. May I look at these?"

The old man gave a grudging consent. He might be a moneylender or a pawnbroker, as probably he was, but he loved these things for their own sake.

"Gon on," he said. "Examine what you like and keep your silence after. Those are not my things. They come to me in the way of business. They are security for borrowed money. Not my money, please understand, but the money of the capitalist who employs me. For I have nothing."

"And you are not afraid of keeping things here? Burglars?"

The old man chuckled again.

'"No burglars could come here," he said. "They know better than put their wits against those of Daniel Harley——"

Gilray made a mental note of the name.

"Because I am ready for them. Not that they know or guess. But my electrical alarms are perfect—the man who tries to get in here is held a prisoner till the police come. Geoffrey Herepath worked it all out for me. A young man, that, who will be a Kelvin some of these days. You know him—you are on a commission before which he gave evidence the other day. He knows that which before long will revolutionise the traffic of the world. You see, I read the papers, I keep myself abreast of the times."

But Gilray was barely listening. He knew Herepath by name, of course; they had met more than once lately, and there was no great love lost between them. Still, Herepath was a long way from Gilray's thoughts just now. He was engrossed upon these exquisite miniatures.

"The three Miss Hessingdales, are they not?" he asked.

The old man's brow clouded; he was growing hard and suspicious again.

"You know too much," he said. "Let me show you something now not quite so famous."

Daniel Harley laid his hand on the bell, and the door opened to admit the girl whom Gilray had seen earlier in the evening. She had discarded the black wrap now, she stood there all in white. Her grace and beauty seemed strangely out of place in that bare, desolate room, her fair face flushed as she saw that the old man was not alone.

"My second keys," he said. "Oh, they are here by my side all the time. My dear, this is Dr. Gilray. My daughter Enid, sir."

The girl flashed an imploring glance at Gilray. He rightly interpreted the look to mean that he was to meet her as a stranger. He bowed as he took the slender pink fingers in his, he thrilled at the contact of her warm flesh. The man was touched as he had never been touched before, moved to his soul. A wife like that, to call that exquisite creature his own! The rich wife that was a necessity to him. And to love her as well, to have his arm around that slender waist, to feel his lips pressed to that little scarlet mouth! His senses reeled as he thought of it. And there was nobody in the way, no rival in the field.

He was still pondering the matter after Harley had dismissed him with no suggestion that he should come there again. Still, he had a good excuse, he could almost demand a further inspection of the man upon whom he had just operated. Side by side with Vorley he walked the silent streets till the Tower Bridge was passed. Here Vorley paused, and called for a taxi from the rank.

"We had better part here," he said. "Goodbye, and many thanks."

"I might have to see my patient again," Gilray suggested.

"I think not," said Vorley drily. "Put him out of your mind. You said there would be no further occasion for you to come again. Oh, yes, Miss Harley is a lovely girl, and no lover comes her way, but all the same, keep your hands from the fire, or you will get burnt. Good-night."

Vorley turned on his heel and departed without another word.

Gilray, as he lounged back in the taxi, smiled to himself. He would be able to find his way back to that house of mystery with but little trouble, he told himself. He would first make a few inquiries, and quite satisfy himself as to the girl's prospects. But for his own folly and prodigal life, he would not have needed to have given money a thought. Had all been well with him, he would gladly have taken Enid without a penny.

He was thinking of the girl and her exquisite beauty as he got into bed; she disturbed his dreams throughout a restless night. Still, now that he had the money to meet that pressing claim, he could wholeheartedly give his attention to his morning's work until the stress was over and luncheon came. With that meal he picked up his 'Daily Messenger,' and tried to forget his professional labours. Then his knife and fork clattered on his plate as his eye met a paragraph that caused his heart to beat rapidly——

"Robbery in Park Lane. Van der Knoot treasures missing. A mysterious robbery took place last night in Park-lane, at the residence of Mr. Isidore Van der Knoot, the famous collector and dealer. It appears that the family were away from home, the servants are at the house in Scotland, and the premises are in charge of a trusted caretaker, who has been in Mr. Van der Knoot's employ for years.

"Just as it was getting dark, Walker, the caretaker, noticed a suspicious noise in the front drawing-room. On his going to see the cause he was attacked by a strange man, and a desperate struggle took place. Walker defended himself with a pistol charged with shot, and avows that he left his mark on the thief. He was overpowered, and rendered insensible, and when he came to himself found that nothing was missing save a three-panelled frame containing Cosway miniatures, presumably the portraits of the famous Misses Hessingdale.

"Probably the intruder, fearing the pistol shot would cause a general alarm, decamped without attempting to remove any of the numerous other treasures in the apartment. So far there is no clue to the thief, for the attack he made when disturbed was so fierce and sudden that Walker declares his utter inability to give any description of his assailant. The police, however, have the matter in hand, and are using every endeavour to trace the daring thief."

Gilray threw the paper on one side, and paced up and down the room. There was no doubt in his mind as to what had become of the missing Cosways. He had had them in his hand not many hours before. They had been stolen, and old Daniel Harley must have known it. But if so, why had he paraded the treasures in such an open fashion? He must have known that he was running a risk, under the eyes of a total stranger. Was the man he had attended, the thief? Was the picturesque old miser, Daniel Harley, a mere vulgar receiver? And did that exquisite girl with the face that recalled the pure features of a Madonna know?

Bah! The suggestion was ridiculous, incredible, impossible of belief. There must be some proper common-sense explanation of the mystery. There might be some——

Gilray's reflections were suddenly broken by the opening of the room door and the entrance of his neat and quiet body servant.

"You are wanted on the telephone, sir," said the man. "Mr. Geoffrey Herepath would like to speak to you. A matter that admits of no delay, sir."