Of course, there was no certainty that our capture had anything to do with these robberies. Quarles based his conviction on the fact that I had spoken to another detective, Percival, who was known to have the case in hand. He believed that I had been seen, that it was concluded that the case was in my hands, that in hunting for the chalice I had stumbled on the other trail, was so hot upon it, in fact, that prompt action on the thieves" part was absolutely necessary.
It was obvious that our capture must be a clue to something; it was natural, perhaps, to jump to the conclusion that it concerned these robberies, but Quarles"s arguments did not altogether convince me. I had half a dozen men hunting for young Squires, who had almost certainly led us into an ambush that night and who had disappeared completely. His old haunts had not known him for a long time; his old companions had lost sight of him. It was generally understood that he had cut his old ways and had turned pious, an evident reference to the hooligan club. At one time he had certainly been friendly with some of the members of a gang I knew of, a gang quite likely to be responsible for these robberies, but inquiries went to show that this gang had practically ceased to exist as an organization.
For nearly a week I was busy morning, noon, and night collecting evidence and facts which were retailed to Quarles, and then I broke down. Nervous energy had kept me going, I suppose, but the blow I had received was not to be ignored. The doctor ordered rest, and I went to Folkestone. I suppose I looked ill, and, perchance, a little interesting; at any rate, I was the recipient of quite a lot of sympathy, and it was on the third afternoon of my stay in the hotel that Mrs. Selborne spoke to me. She had heard me telling some one that I was recovering from an accident.
She had a yacht in the harbor. She had great faith in the recuperating power of yachting. She would have her skipper up that evening, if I would make use of the yacht next day. I hesitated to accept her kind offer. She evidently meant me to go alone; said she had not intended to use the yacht on the following day; but it was finally arranged that she should take me for a sail. It was the first of several. On the first occasion she also took a lady staying in the hotel, and on the second a lad who was there with his parents, but as they were both bad sailors we went by ourselves the third time.
"It spoils the pleasure to see other people ill," said Mrs. Selborne. "I think we might really go alone without unduly shocking people."
So it happened that I was enjoying the breeze and the sunshine under ideal circ.u.mstances and with as charming a companion as a man could wish to have.
I told Zena so in one of my letters; so convincingly, I regret to say, that the dear girl did not like it. There was really no cause for jealousy, but bring a man in close contact with a pretty and charming woman, especially on a yacht, and he is almost certain to flirt with her a little.
It was very mild and harmless in my case, and indeed Mrs. Selborne, jolly and somewhat unconventional as she was, would have resented any liberty.
We frankly enjoyed each other"s society, and at the end of a few days might have known each other for years.
Certainly I owed her a debt of grat.i.tude, for the yacht did me worlds of good. I told her so that afternoon.
"You certainly look better," she said.
"You will send me back to work sooner than I expected."
"When?"
"At the end of the week."
"And I expect my husband to-morrow."
I don"t suppose she meant it, but she said it as if she regretted his coming.
"Is he fond of yachting?" I asked.
"It bores him to tears," she laughed. "Most of the things which I like do. Still, he is very good to me. I am an old man"s darling, you know."
It was the first time she had mentioned her husband, and she had not shown the slightest curiosity in my affairs. She was just a good pal for the time being. That was how she had impressed me, but this afternoon she was--how shall I put it?--she was rather more of a woman than usual. I might easily imagine she had given me an opening for a serious flirtation. Her manner might suggest that I had become more to her than she had intended. I put the idea away from me, mentally kicking myself for allowing it to get into my head at all.
"We shall sail as usual to-morrow," she told her skipper when we landed.
"Very good, ma"am."
"Mr. Selborne arrives to-morrow night. Let some one go up for his luggage. Half past ten."
"Yes, ma"am."
Mrs. Selborne and I walked back to the hotel and stood on the lawn talking for a little while before going to dress for dinner.
"To-morrow will be our last cruise, I am afraid," she said, looking across the Leas. "I hope it will be fine."
"I hope so."
"It would really be a terrible disappointment to me if it were not. I would go--Ah, now I am being tempted to talk foolishly."
She turned from me a little defiantly. She was certainly very attractive, and naturally fell into poses which showed her off to the best advantage.
A man, sitting on the lawn, paused in the act of taking a cigarette from his case to look at her. His interest pleased me. I was human, and it flattered my vanity to know that I counted with this woman.
"What desperate thing were you going to say?" I asked.
"You will laugh at me."
"I am more likely to match you in desperation."
"I was going to say I would go to-morrow, wet or fine, wind or sunshine, rather than miss our last day."
Could I do less than make a compact that it should be so? If I admit there was no sign of a coming change in the weather it must not be supposed that I am trying to make out that her beauty and personality did not affect me. They did.
"I could almost pray for bad weather just to see that you are a man of your word," she laughed. "Is it a promise?"
"It is."
She went in to dress, and I smoked a cigarette before doing likewise.
As I entered my room and closed the door, a man stepped from behind the wardrobe. It was the man who had been interested in Mrs. Selborne on the lawn.
"Pardon. I wished to speak to you alone, and this seemed the only method."
"I"ll hear what you have to say before I hand you over to the management," I answered.
"It is a delicate matter," he returned, with a simper, which made me desire to kick him. "It concerns a lady. You are Mr. James Murray; at least, that is the name you entered in the hotel books."
"It is my name," I answered.
"Part of it, I think, part of it. You are usually called Murray Wigan, I believe, and you are engaged to Miss Quarles--Miss Zena Quarles, the granddaughter of a rather stupid professor."
"What has this to do with you?"
"I said it was a delicate matter," he went on. "My client has reason to believe that you are--shall I say enamored of a lady staying in this hotel? You may have noticed me on the lawn just now when you were talking to the lady--I judge it was the lady. Your taste, sir, appeals to me, but I am bound to say--"
"Are you a private detective?"
"Just an inquiry agent; helpful in saving people trouble sometimes."
"Do you mean to tell me that Miss Quarles--"
"No, not exactly, but, my dear Wigan--"
It was Quarles. He changed his voice, seemed to alter his figure, but of course the make-up remained. He was a perfect genius in altering his appearance.
"Was that the lady?" he asked. "Zena mentioned you were yachting with a Mrs. Selborne down here. I don"t think she quite liked it. She was woman enough to read between the lines of your letter."