Compelled against my will to accompany
the inspector to the police head-quarters in the High
Street, I made a statement a rather lame
one, I fear.
I concealed the fact that the lady
of the previous night’s conference was my wife,
and explained my visit to Stamford, and my inquiries
at the George, by the fact that I had met the man
Lewis abroad, and had had some financial dealings
with him, which, I now suspected, were not altogether
square. So, hearing that he had motored to the
north, I had followed, and had inquired at several
of the well-known motoring hotels for news of him,
being unsuccessful until I had arrived at Stamford.
This story would, of course, not have
held water had Miss Hammond, the manageress, been
present. Happily, however, she had not accompanied
me, hence I was able to concoct a somewhat plausible
excuse to the local superintendent.
“Then you actually know nothing
concerning these people?” he asked, regarding
me shrewdly.
“Nothing beyond the fact of
meeting Lewis abroad, and very foolishly trusting
in his honesty.”
The superintendent smiled. I
think he regarded me as a bit of a fool. Probably
I had been.
“They are a clever gang, no
doubt,” he declared. “The Archduchess’s
necklace must have been stolen by some one travelling
in the train. I’ve been on to Scotland
Yard by telephone, and there seems a suspicion because
at Grantham the last stopping-place before
London a ticket-collector boarded the train.
He was a stranger to the others, but they believed
that he had been transferred from one or other of
the branches to the main line, and being in the company’s
uniform they, of course, accepted him. He collected
the tickets en route, as is sometimes done,
and at Finsbury Park descended, and was lost sight
of. Here again the busy collectors came and demanded
tickets, much to the surprise of the passengers, and
the curious incident was much commented upon.”
“Then the bogus collector was the thief, I suppose?”
“No doubt. He somehow secured
the dressing-bag and dropped it out at a point between
Grantham and Essendine a spot where he knew
his accomplices would be waiting a very
neatly-planned robbery.”
“And by persons who are evidently experts,”
I said.
“Of course,” replied the
grey-haired superintendent. “The manner
in which the diamonds have been quickly transferred
from hand to hand and carried out of the country is
sufficient evidence of that. The gang have now
scattered, and, for aught we know, have all crossed
the Channel by this time.”
“Well,” I assured him;
“I know nothing more of the affair than what
I have told you. If I were an accomplice I should
hardly be here making inquiries concerning
them.”
“I don’t know so much
about that,” he replied, rather incredulously.
“Such an action has been known before, in order
to place the police upon a wrong scent. I fear
I must ask you to remain here, in Stamford, until
this evening, while I make some inquiry into your bona
fides, sir.”
“What!” I cried. “You intend
to detain me!”
“There is no indignity,”
he declared. “You may go about the town
where you will providing you do not attempt
to leave it. I regret, but it is my duty to ascertain
who and what you are, Mr. Biddulph.”
I had given him my card, and he, seeing
the look of annoyance upon my face, added
“I can only express apologies,
sir. But you will see it is my duty. You
have admitted knowledge of at least one of the mysterious
gang.”
“Very well,” I replied
reluctantly; “make what inquiries you will.”
And I gave him the address of my solicitors and my
bankers.
Then, walking out of the office, I
strolled down the quiet old High Street into the market
place, full of evil forebodings.
Who was this man Lewis or
Louis with whom my wife had escaped?
He was a blackguardly adventurer,
anyhow. He had addressed her as “dear,”
and had been solicitous of her welfare throughout!
To him she had signalled from her box in the theatre,
well knowing that he was making secret preparations
for her elopement. Indeed, she had written that
note and placed it upon my blotting-pad before we had
gone forth together, she well knowing that she would
never again re-cross my threshold.
Ah! The poignant bitterness of
it all had gripped my heart. My cup of unhappiness
was now assuredly full.
How brief had been my joy; how quickly
my worst fears had been realized.
About the quiet, old-world decaying
town I wandered, hardly knowing whither I went.
When, every now and then, in the fading light, I found
myself going into the country I turned back, mindful
of my promise not to leave the place without permission.
About six I returned to the George
and sat beside the fire in the lounge in
that selfsame chair where my fugitive wife had sat.
I was eager to renew the chase, yet until I received
word from the police I was compelled to remain helpless.
Old Cross, the boots, became inquisitive,
but I evaded his questions, and ate my dinner alone
in the small cosy coffee-room, awaiting the reappearance
of Inspector Deane. I had given my chauffeur liberty
till eight o’clock, but I was all anxiety to
drive back to London.
Still, if I returned, what could I
do? Sylvia and her companions had driven away whither
was a mystery.
The Criminal Investigation Department
had already issued an official description of the
persons wanted, for while I had been at the police-office
the inspector had been closely questioning the man
Cross and Miss Hammond.
Already the police drag-net was out,
and the combined police forces of Europe would, in
an hour or two, be on the watch for Sylvia and her
mysterious companions.
So far as the United Kingdom was concerned
sixty thousand officers, detectives and constables
would be furnished with a complete description of
those who had held that secret consultation. The
tightest of tight cordons would be drawn.
Every passenger who embarked at English ports for
abroad would be carefully scrutinized by plain-clothes
men. Every hotel-keeper, not only in London, but
in the remote villages and hamlets would be closely
questioned as to the identity and recent movements
of his guests. Full descriptions of Sylvia and
her friends would be cabled to America, and the American
police would be asked to keep a sharp look-out on passengers
arriving on all boats from Europe. Descriptions
would also be sent to the police head-quarters in
every European capital.
In face of that, what more could I do?
The situation had become unbearable.
Sylvia’s unaccountable action had plunged me
into a veritable sea of despair. The future seemed
blank and hopeless.
Just before eight o’clock I
strolled back to the police-office and reported myself,
as it were. The superintendent expressed himself
perfectly satisfied with the replies he had received
from London, and, with apologies, gave me leave to
depart.
“Inquiry is being made along
the roads in every direction from here,” he
said. “We hear that the three men and the
woman called at the Bell, at Barnby Moor, and had
some breakfast. Afterwards they continued northward.”
“Barnby Moor!” I echoed. “Why,
that’s near Doncaster.”
“Yes, sir. Motorists patronize the place
a good deal.”
“And is that all that is known?” I inquired
eagerly.
“All at present,” he said.
Therefore I left and, returning to the garage, mounted
the car and, with head-lamps alight, drove out into
the pitch darkness in the direction of Grantham.
We sped along the broad old coach-road for nearly
three hours, until at last we pulled up before an
ancient wayside inn which had been modernized and adapted
to twentieth-century requirements.
The manager, in reply to my eager
questions, said it was true that the Doncaster police
had been there making inquiries regarding four motorists three
gentlemen and a lady who had called there
that morning and had had breakfast in the coffee-room.
The head-waiter who had attended them
was called, and I questioned him. I think the
manager believed me to be a detective, for he was
most courteous, and ready to give me all information.
“Yes, sir,” replied the
tall, slim head-waiter. “They came here
in a great hurry, and seemed to have come a long distance,
judging from the way the car was plastered with mud.
The lady was very cold, for they had an open car,
and she wore a gentleman’s overcoat and a shawl
tied around her head. The tallest of the gentlemen
drove the car. They called him Lewis.”
“Did you hear them address the lady?”
I asked eagerly.
“They called her Sonia, sir.”
“And you say she seemed very fatigued?”
“Very. She went upstairs
and changed her evening gown for a stuff dress, which
was brought out of the car. Then she came down
and joined the others at breakfast.”
“They gave you no indication as to their destination,
I suppose?”
“Well, sir, I think they were
returning to London, for I heard one of the gentlemen
say something about catching the boat-train.”
“They may have meant the Harwich
boat-train from the north,” I remarked.
“Very likely, sir. One
portion of that train comes through Doncaster in the
afternoon to Peterborough and March, while the other
comes down to Rugby on the North-Western, and then
goes across to Peterborough by way of Market Harborough.”
“Then they may have joined that,
and if so they would just about be leaving Parkeston
Quay by now!”
“If so, the police are certain
to spot them,” laughed the waiter. “They’re
wanted for the theft of a princess’s jewels,
they say.”
What should I do? It was now
long past ten o’clock, and I could not possibly
arrive at Parkeston before early morning. Besides,
if they had really gone there, they would, no doubt,
be arrested. The man with the pimply face whose
description so closely tallied with that of Reckitt,
was surely too clever a criminal to run his neck into
a noose by going to any port of embarkation.
Therefore I concluded that whatever had been said
at table had been said with the distinct object of
misleading the waiter. The very manner in which
the diamonds had been stolen showed a cunning and
a daring unsurpassed. Such men were certainly
not easily trapped.
My sole thought was of Sylvia.
I could not bring myself to believe that she had wilfully
forsaken her home and her husband. Upon her, I
felt confident, some species of blackmail had been
levied, and she had been forced away from me by reasons
beyond her control.
That incident of the photograph the
picture believed to have been of myself which
the foreigner tried to secure but which the man Lewis
had himself destroyed, was incomprehensible. What
had been intended by the foreigner?
I gathered all the information I could
in the hotel, and then, after a hasty meal, re-entered
the car and set out upon the dark, cold return journey
to London.
Where was Sylvia? Who were her
mysterious friends? And, chief of all, who was
that man Lewis who addressed her in such endearing
terms?
What could possibly be the solution of the mystery?