Читать книгу Harry Blount, the Detective; Or, The Martin Mystery Solved - T. J. Flanagan - Страница 8

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It was nearly noon on the second day following his visit to London, when Hall arrived home. He looked worn and haggard, and Mr. Stafford, who happened to meet him, made some remark about his looking badly.

Yes, Mr. Hall supposed he did look pretty bad; he had been bothered most infernally with business affairs for the past two days, and now, to make matters worse, he was compelled to go to Dublin to close another important transaction. Mr. Stafford would oblige him by kindly explaining this to the ladies, as he had not a moment to spare, and must pack up and leave within an hour.

An hour later Hall was at the railway station, looking considerably improved by a shave and change of clothing.

On arriving at Liverpool he bought a ticket for Antwerp instead of Dublin, and seemed chagrined to find there was no steamer until next day. So much vent did he give to his annoyance that the attention of the booking-clerk was specially attracted to him.

When Hall left the booking-office a quiet looking little man with remarkably bright eyes entered and inquired Hall's name and destination. It was given as Samuel Andrews, for Antwerp! The quiet little man, whom the usually very independent clerks treated with great respect, thanked them with a sweet smile, and then went to the nearest police station and consulted with the inspector, after which he sent several telegrams to London.

The steamer sailed at noon next day, and from early morning the little man, who was by name Harry Blount, and by profession a detective, sauntered up and down the pier. As the time for sailing drew nearer he looked more anxious and doubtful, but no Hall appeared. Mr. Blount rubbed his nose reflectively as he watched the vessel steaming away, murmured something not very angelic regarding Mr. Hall, asseverated that he believed himself closely related to several distinct kinds of idiots, and then went back to consult once more with his friend the inspector.

Kate Stafford was in the garden the evening after Hall's departure, book in hand, but not reading. She was thinking of the man who had saved her life—a dangerous occupation for a young lady engaged to marry another man. If she did give a thought to Hall it was of fear and dislike, for in a vague, unreasoning way, she regarded him as the cause of her father's, and in consequence, her own trouble.

Hearing the gate shut she looked up, and the blood rushed to her face as she saw the man of whom she had been thinking coming toward her. Martin was accompanied by the quiet little man with the sharp eyes, whom he introduced as a gentleman desirous of seeing her father, and the three entered the house, where Mr. Blount was introduced to Mr. Stafford.

Kate left them to change her dress, and it was curious to see what care she took in selecting the prettiest.

While she was absent Martin informed Mr. Stafford that Blount was a detective.

"He is anxious to meet Mr. Hall, and would like to know whatever you can tell him about that gentleman's whereabouts. You will oblige me very much by giving him whatever information you can."

Mrs. Stafford entered just at that moment, and was surprised and delighted to meet Martin. Not wishing her to be annoyed in the matter, Martin suggested that they had better leave Mr. Stafford and his friend to talk business, and they accordingly adjourned to the drawing-room where Kate soon joined them.

Mr. Stafford was, of course, surprised to learn that his visitor was a detective, and more so that he should be looking for Hall. However, on being informed that Mr. Blount was desirous of finding Mr. Hall for the purpose of transacting an important piece of business, and that that gentleman had disappeared from his London address, he gave the desired information.

"Oh yes!" said Mr. Stafford, much relieved, "Mr. Hall left very hurriedly yesterday on important business, to be transacted in Dublin."

"So—Mr. Hall has gone to Dublin, eh!" remarked Mr. Blount reflectively. "Hum—well, I'm obliged to you for your kindness. You see, the people who engaged me are very anxious to meet Mr. Hall again, and his disappearance from town worried them. Allow me to thank you again, and please say good-bye for me to Mr. Martin, as I must return at once."

He had his hand on the door-knob, when turning as though a new idea had occurred to him, he continued:

"Would there be any objection to my looking about Mr. Hall's room? It is possible I might find some cl—something which would enable me to put my people in communication with him."

"No, I don't know that there is any objection," replied Mr. Stafford, slowly, and led the way to Hall's rooms. In one corner of the dressing-room stood a handsome desk, and after looking carelessly about the rooms Mr. Blount examined this carefully.

Mr. Stafford stood looking on, hardly knowing whether or not to stop the searcher. To his relief, however, Mr. Blount stopped after pulling out one or two drawers—behind one of which he found a couple of empty envelopes addressed to "Mr. Henry Hall, No. — Harley St., London." These had evidently been pushed out by other papers.

After glancing at the address and making a mental memorandum of it, Blount said he would look no further.

"We shall have to wait until Mr. Hall comes back or writes," he said, and took his departure.

Going out he met Martin and the two ladies about taking a walk.

"Well, what luck," asked Martin, who excused himself to the ladies and hastened to meet him.

"I've found his address in the city and it is there we must try for him."

"Then you don't believe in the trip to Dublin?"

"Not a bit. While so far there's not a morsel of evidence against him, I'm morally certain he was on his way to Antwerp and thence to Amsterdam with those diamonds, and when he found he was followed doubled back. Come up to-morrow and meet me at Bow Street at noon. Good-bye."

Martin spent a very pleasant evening with the Staffords. Their nephew, Fred Carden, furnished the topic of conversation for the evening, and it naturally brought Martin himself somewhat into the conversation—and never had a narrator a more attentive and enthusiastic audience.

Knowing nothing about the engagement between Kate and Hall, Martin, who from the day he had carried her home had found himself thinking more and more about her, now noted with pleasure her interest in everything he said concerning himself. It was not so much lack of interest concerning her cousin, as increased interest when he spoke of himself.