"Oh, oh," cried the girl, "I read that story of the stolen corpse in the papers. I understand!"
"It was almost inevitable that you should understand," said Merton.
"But then," said the girl, "what did you mean by saying that my father has done you a great service. You are deceiving me. I have said too much. This is base!" Miss Markham rose, her eyes and cheeks burning.
"What I told you is the absolute and entire truth," said Merton, nearly as red as she was.
"Then," exclaimed Miss Markham, "this is baser yet! You must mean that by doing what you think he has done my father has somehow enabled Robert--Mr. Logan--to come into the marquis"s property. Perhaps the marquis left no will, or the will--is gone! And do you believe that Mr.
Logan will thank you for acting in this way?" She stood erect, her hand resting on the back of a chair, indignant and defiant.
"In the first place, I have a written power from Mr. Logan to act as I think best. Next, I have not even informed myself as to how the law of Scotland stands in regard to the estate of a man who dies leaving no will. Lastly, Miss Markham, I am extremely hampered by the fact that Mr.
Logan has not the remotest suspicion of what I suspected--and now know--to be the truth as to the disappearance of his cousin"s body. I successfully concealed my idea from Mr. Logan, so as to avoid giving pain to him and you. I did my best to conceal it from you, though I never expected to succeed. And now, if you wish to know how your father has conferred a benefit on Mr. Logan, I must tell you, though I would rather be silent. Mr. Logan is aware of the benefit, but will never, if you can trust yourself, suspect his benefactor."
"I can never, never see him again," the girl sobbed.
"Time is flying," said Merton, who was familiar, in works of fiction, with the situation indicated by the girl. "Can you trust me, or not?" he asked, "My single object is secrecy and your father"s safety. I owe that to my friend, to you, and even, as it happens, to your father. Can you enable me, dressed as I am, to have an interview with him?"
"You will not hurt him? You will not give him up? You will not bring the police on him?"
"I am acting as I do precisely for the purpose of keeping the police off him. They have discovered nothing."
The girl gave a sigh of relief.
"Your father"s only danger would lie in my--failure to return from my interview with him. Against _that_ I cannot safeguard him; it is fair to tell you so. But my success in persuading him to adopt a certain course would be equally satisfactory to Mr. Logan and to himself."
"Mr. Logan knows nothing?"
"Absolutely nothing. I alone, and now you, know anything."
The girl walked up and down in agony.
"n.o.body will ever know if I do not tell you how to find him," she said.
"Unhappily that is not the case. I only ask _you_, so that it may not be necessary to take other steps, tardy, but certain, and highly undesirable."
"You will not go to him armed?"
"I give you my word of honour," said Merton. "I have risked myself unarmed already."
The girl paused with fixed eyes that saw nothing. Merton watched her.
Then she took her resolve.
"I do not know where he is living. I know that on Wednesdays, that is, the day after to-morrow, he is to be found at Dr. Fogarty"s, a private asylum, a house with a garden, in Water Lane, Hammersmith."
It was the lane in which stood the Home for Dest.i.tute and Decayed Cats, whither Logan had once abducted Rangoon, the Siamese puss.
"Thank you," said Merton simply. "And I am to ask for?"
"Ask first for Dr. Fogarty. You will tell him that you wish to see the _Ertwa Oknurcha_."
"Ah, Australian for "The Big Man,"" said Merton.
"I don"t know what it means," said Miss Markham. "Dr. Fogarty will then ask, "Have you the _churinga_?""
The girl drew out a slim gold chain which hung round her neck and under her dress. At the end of it was a dark piece of wood, shaped much like a large cigar, and decorated with incised concentric circles, stained red.
"Take that and show it to Dr. Fogarty," said Miss Markham, detaching the object from the chain.
Merton returned it to her. "I know where to get a similar _churinga_,"
he said. "Keep your own. Its absence, if asked for, might lead to awkward questions."
"Thank you, I can trust you," said Miss Markham, adding, "You will address my father as Dr. Melville."
"Again thanks, and good-bye," said Merton. He bowed and withdrew.
"She is a good deal upset, poor girl," Merton remarked to Madame Claudine, who, on going to comfort Miss Markham with tea, found her weeping. Merton took another cab, and drove to Trevor"s house.
After dinner (at which there were no guests), and in the smoking-room, Trevor asked whether he had made any progress.
"Everything succeeded to a wish," said Merton. "You remember Water Lane?"
"Where Logan carried the Siamese cat in my cab," said Trevor, grinning at the reminiscence. "Rather! I reconnoitred the place with Logan."
"Well, on the day after to-morrow I have business there."
"Not at the Cats" Home?"
"No, but perhaps you might reconnoitre again. Do you remember a house with high walls and spikes on them?"
"I do," said Trevor; "but how do you know? You never were there. You disapproved of Logan"s method in the case of the cat."
"I never was there; I only made a guess, because the house I am interested in is a private asylum."
"Well, you guessed right. What then?"
"You might reconnoitre the ground to-morrow--the exits, there are sure to be some towards waste land or market gardens."
"Jolly!" said Trevor. "I"ll make up as a wanderer from Suffolk, looking for a friend in the slums; semi-bargee kind of costume."
"That would do," said Merton. "But you had better go in the early morning."
"A nuisance. Why?"
"Because, later, you will have to get a gang of fellows to be about the house the day after, when I pay my visit."
"Fellows of our own sort, or the police?"
"Neither. I thought of fellows of our own sort. They would talk and guess."