Ëþê Ìåääèñîí 6-11 ãëàâà

Ëþê Ìýääèñîí âîø¸ë â ñâîé êàáèíåò òàê ñïîêîéíî, ÷òî Ñòàéëç, íàáëþäàâøèé çà íèì èç ñâîåãî êàáèíåòà ñî ñòåêëÿííîé ïåðåãîðîäêîé, è ïðåäñòàâèòü ñåáå íå ìîã, êàêàÿ ðàçðóøèòåëüíàÿ êàòàñòðîôà ïåðåâåðíóëà æèçíü åãî ìîëîäîãî ðàáîòîäàòåëÿ. Ñòàéëç âçãëÿíóë íà ÷àñû è óäîâëåòâîðåííî õìûêíóë. Î÷åâèäíî, âîïðîñ ñ ÷åêîì áûë áëàãîïîëó÷íî óëàæåí.
Çàçâîíèë äîìàøíèé òåëåôîí, è îí âçÿë òðóáêó.
— Âû âîéäåòå?
Ãîëîñ Ëþêà çâó÷àë ðîâíî, íè îäíà ýìîöèÿ íå âûäàâàëà åãî ÷óâñòâ.
Ïðåäàâàòü áûëî íå÷åìó. Îí áûë ïîðàæåí ñîáñòâåííûì óäèâèòåëüíûì ñïîêîéñòâèåì, è ïðîøëî íåêîòîðîå âðåìÿ, ïðåæäå ÷åì îí ïîíÿë ïðè÷èíó ñâîåé íåíîðìàëüíîé áåçìÿòåæíîñòè. Îí æèë òîëüêî íàñòîÿùèì, íå îñìåëèâàÿñü îãëÿäûâàòüñÿ íàçàä, è åìó áûëî âñå ðàâíî, ÷òî æäåò åãî çàâòðà.
Ñòàéëç, êîòîðûé çíàë åãî ñ äåòñòâà, óâèäåë íà åãî ëèöå âûðàæåíèå, êîòîðîãî íèêîãäà ðàíüøå íå âèäåë, è âñòðåâîæèëñÿ.
— ×òî-òî ñëó÷èëîñü, ñýð? — ñ òðåâîãîé ñïðîñèë îí.
Ëþê Ìýääèñîí ïîäæàë ãóáû, ñëîâíî ñîáèðàÿñü ñâèñòíóòü.
«Íå çíàþ. ß åùå íå äî êîíöà ðàçîáðàëñÿ. Ïðèñàæèâàéñÿ, Ñòàéëç».
Îí ñíîâà ïîäæàë ãóáû, ãëÿäÿ êóäà-òî ìèìî ñâîåãî óïðàâëÿþùåãî, à çàòåì ðàçìåðåííî è íåòîðîïëèâî ðàññêàçàë åìó, ÷òî ïðîèçîøëî. Ñåé÷àñ íå áûëî ìåñòà ñäåðæàííîñòè, è îí íå ÷óâñòâîâàë íåîáõîäèìîñòè îïðàâäûâàòü ïîñòóïîê Ìàðãàðåò. Îí èìåë äåëî ñ íåîïðîâåðæèìûìè ôàêòàìè è èçëàãàë èõ ñ õëàäíîêðîâíîé òî÷íîñòüþ, êàê åñëè áû ïåðå÷èñëÿë ñòîèìîñòü àêöèé â ðåêëàìíîì ïðîñïåêòå.
Ñòàéëç óñëûøàë, íî ïîíà÷àëó íå ìîã îñîçíàòü ìàñøòàáû êàòàñòðîôû. Íàêîíåö îí èçäàë òèõèé ñòîí, è ýòî, ïîõîæå, ïðîáóäèëî â Ëþêå Ìýääèñîíå êàêîå-òî ñêðûòîå ÷óâñòâî þìîðà, ïîòîìó ÷òî îí óëûáíóëñÿ.
«Ñòàéëç, òåáå ïðèäåòñÿ ñäåëàòü âñå, ÷òî â òâîèõ ñèëàõ. Ïîëàãàþ, ó òåáÿ åñòü äðóçüÿ â Ñèòè, êîòîðûå ìîãëè áû ïîìî÷ü, íî ÿ íå âåðþ, ÷òî ñòîèò ê íèì îáðàùàòüñÿ, — ÿ âîîáùå íè âî ÷òî íå âåðþ. Íåò, ÿ íå â øîêå, ÿ óíè÷òîæåí». Íî ÿ íå æàëåþ ñåáÿ — õîòÿ è õîòåëà áû. Ïî êðàéíåé ìåðå, ýòî âåðíóëî áû ìåíÿ ê ðåàëüíîñòè.
— ×òî òû ñîáèðàåøüñÿ äåëàòü? — ãîëîñ Ñòàéëçà çâó÷àë åäâà ñëûøíî.
Ëþê Ìýääèñîí ïîêà÷àë ãîëîâîé.
«ß íå çíàþ òî÷íî, — íàõìóðèëñÿ îí. — ×òî â òàêèõ ñëó÷àÿõ äåëàþò? Óõîäÿò è ñòðåëÿþò â ëüâîâ! Ðàçâå íå òàê îáû÷íî ïîñòóïàþò ìóæ÷èíû ñ ðàçáèòûì ñåðäöåì? Íå çíàþ».
Ñòàéëç âçãëÿíóë íà ÷àñû è âñòàë èç-çà ñòîëà.
«Ïîéäó â áàíê», — ñêàçàë îí ñ íåîæèäàííîé ýíåðãèåé. «Äóìàþ, ìû ìîæåì çàëîæèòü àêöèè «Èñêóññòâåííîãî øåëêà» â ñ÷åò îâåðäðàôòà».
Ëþê íè÷åãî íå îòâåòèë. Îí óñëûøàë îòðûâèñòóþ ðå÷ü Ñòàéëçà — ñòàðèê âñåãäà òàê ãîâîðèë, êîãäà áûë âçâîëíîâàí. Îí ïîíÿë, ÷òî Ñòàéëç âûøåë è çàêðûë çà ñîáîé äâåðü.
Äåñÿòü ìèíóò îí ñèäåë çà ñòîëîì, ãëÿäÿ ïðÿìî ïåðåä ñîáîé è èçî âñåõ ñèë ïûòàÿñü âåðíóòüñÿ ê æèçíè. Çàòåì îí âñòàë, âçÿë ñî ñòîéêè øëÿïó, ìàøèíàëüíî íàòÿíóë ïåð÷àòêè è ñïóñòèëñÿ ïî ïîòàéíîé ëåñòíèöå íà óëèöó.
Îòêðûâàÿ äâåðü ñâîåé êâàðòèðû, îí óñëûøàë òåëåôîííûé çâîíîê è óñïåë îñòàíîâèòü äâîðåöêîãî, êîòîðûé ñîáèðàëñÿ îòâåòèòü.
«Íå îòâå÷àéòå, ïîæàëóéñòà», — ñêàçàë îí.
Òåëåôîí ñòîÿë â åãî ìàëåíüêîì êàáèíåòå, ïðèìûêàâøåì ê ñïàëüíå. Îí ñíÿë òðóáêó è ïîëîæèë åå íà ñòîë. Çàòåì, çàïåðåâ äâåðü, ïåðåîäåëñÿ. Îí âçÿë ïåðâîå, ÷òî ïîïàëîñü ïîä ðóêó, è, ïîêà íå îäåëñÿ, íå çàìå÷àë, ÷òî áðþêè è ïèäæàê ïëîõî ñî÷åòàþòñÿ. Ïåðåñ÷èòàâ äåíüãè â êàðìàíàõ, îí îáíàðóæèë, ÷òî ó íåãî ÷óòü áîëüøå ïÿòèäåñÿòè ôóíòîâ. Ýòî çàñòàâèëî åãî çàäóìàòüñÿ. ×üè ýòî äåíüãè — åãî èëè åå? Ýòî áûëî íåëåïî...

Luke Maddison walked into his office so calmly that Stiles, who from his glass-partitioned office saw him pass, did not dream of the devastating catastrophe which had shattered the life of his young employer. Stiles glanced up at the clock and grunted his satisfaction. Evidently the matter of the check had been satisfactorily adjusted.
The house ’phone rang and he took up the instrument.
“Will you come in?”
Luke’s voice was even; not by so much as a tremor did he betray his emotion.
There was nothing remarkable to betray. He was astounded at his own amazing calm, and it was some time before he had discovered a reason for his abnormal serenity. He was living entirely in the present, not daring to look backward, indifferent to what waited on the morrow.
Stiles, who had known him from a child, saw something in his face that he had never seen before, and was alarmed.
“Anything wrong, sir?” he asked anxiously.
Luke Maddison pursed his lips as though he were going to whistle.
“I don’t know. I haven’t quite got things into perspective. Sit down, Stiles.”
Again he pursed his lips, staring past his manager; and then, in measured, deliberate tones, he told the man just what had happened. It was not a moment for reticence, nor did he feel the necessity for covering up or excusing Margaret’s action. He was dealing with definite and final facts, and he set them forth with a sort of cold-blooded precision, as he would have set forth the values in a prospectus.
Stiles heard but at first could not comprehend the magnitude of the disaster. At last he made a little moaning sound, and this seemed to appeal to some latent sense of humour in Luke Maddison, for he smiled.
“You’ll have to do the best you can, Stiles. I suppose one has friends in the City who would help, but I haven’t the faith to go to them—faith in anything. No, I’m not stunned, I’m destroyed. But I’m not feeling sorry for myself—I wish I could. That at least would bring me back to realities.”
“What are you going to do?” Stiles’ voice was little above a whisper.
Luke Maddison shook his head.
“I don’t know exactly,” he frowned. “What does one do in these circumstances? Go away and shoot lions! Isn’t that the usual course for broken-hearted men to take? I don’t know.”
Stiles glanced at his watch and got up from the table.
“I’m going to see the bank,” he said, with remarkable energy. “I think we can lodge those Artificial Silk shares against an overdraft.”
Luke made no comment. He heard the staccato explosion of Stiles’ voice—the old man invariably got that way when he was excited. He was conscious that Stiles had gone and shut the door behind him.
For ten minutes he sat at the desk, looking straight ahead, trying hard to re;stablish touch with life. Then he rose, took his hat from the stand, mechanically drew on his gloves and went down the private staircase into the street.
As he opened the door of his flat he heard the telephone bell ringing, and had time to stop the butler as he was going to it to answer.
“Leave it, will you, please,” he said.
The ’phone was in his own little study leading from his bedroom. He lifted the receiver and put it on the table. Then, locking the door, he changed his clothes. He took the first garments that came to him; was unaware, till he was dressed, that trousers and coat were a bad match. Counting the money in his pockets, he found he had a little over fifty pounds. He grew thoughtful at this. Was that his or hers? It was a ridiculous problem, yet he battled it out for a long while; but all the time realities avoided him. He could only think of Margaret as A, himself as B. There was C, which stood for money—did this belong to A or B?
He threw the notes on the table, retaining the silver, and went out into the hall. He was taking down a light overcoat when the butler appeared at his elbow to ask the inevitable question.
“No, no, I’m dining out to-night.” And then, with the open door in his hand, he remembered. “I left some money on the table in my study. Take half for yourself and half for the cook—I shall not want you after this week.”
He left the man petrified with amazement and dismay.
Why he gravitated to the Embankment he could never tell; it seemed a natural objective. He had no thought of suicide, no intention of finding that gross way to forgetfulness. Walking slowly by the parapet, he came to a halt before Scotland Yard and eyed that Gothic building incuriously. That big detective was there, the Sparrow—the Sparrow, who righted so many wrongs, could hardly disentangle the problem which deadened the mind of Luke Maddison. The “children of the poor”! He smiled mirthlessly. He was one of the children of the poor, the natural charge of that big man. To protect the children of the poor and punish the wrongdoer. Who had done wrong? Margaret? He tried hard to apportion all blame to her, to hate her. He shook his head and walked slowly back toward Blackfriars.
Opposite the Temple station he rested again. There was a narrow street running up to the Strand—Norfolk Street, wasn’t it? And his lawyer had his office there. Why not see him and tell him all that had happened? It was the sane thing to do. But then Luke Maddison realized that he was not sane. He was the maddest being in the maddest world.
He went on toward Blackfriars and came to a halt before the tram station. There was a long queue of people waiting to board the cars which arrived empty and went rolling along the Embankment crowded with humanity. Husbands and wives, possibly; young men going back to sweethearts who loved them; girls who had faith in some men or other and were ready to make every sacrifice for them. To Luke Maddison every car that drew away was laden with happy people, their day’s work ended, the recreations and pleasures of the night before them. Old men, young men; girls looking trim and smart; young men smoking big pipes, with a newspaper under their arms; bespectacled students—they hypnotized him, these great, blazing tramcars. He watched men and women mounting to the top, tried to identify them through the glazed windows.
He was standing with his back to the parapet, his elbows resting on the stone.
“Are you waiting for anybody?”
The voice had authority, though it was quite kind. He looked up to meet the suspicious scrutiny of a City policeman. The City police do not like to see men lingering indecisively, one hand on the parapet, the swirling black river below—especially a white-faced man, with a tense face and an almost horrified stare.
“N-no,” stammered Luke, “I’m—just watching.”
The policeman was looking at him curiously, as though he was trying to remember his face.
“I’ve seen you before somewhere, haven’t I?”
“I dare say,” said Luke, and turned away abruptly.
He followed the homeward-wending crowd across Blackfriars Bridge. It was dark and cold, and he struggled into the overcoat which he had been carrying on his arm. He remembered somewhere in the borough that he entered a little coffee-house, redolent of burning lard.
At eleven o’clock it began to rain, a fine drizzle that very soon soaked through the light coat. He was walking aimlessly along York Road in the direction of Westminster. A man ahead of him was walking more slowly, a slouching man with his hands in his pockets and his coat collar turned up. Luke was wearing rubber-soled shoes, and came up to the walker before he was aware of his presence. He saw the night wanderer lurch sideways with a snarl, stoop forward as though he were going to run, and then something in Luke’s face or appearance checked his flight.
“Hullo!” he said huskily. “Thought you was a busy.”
Luke recognized him.
“You’re Lewing, aren’t you?”
The man peered into his face.
“Blimey, if it ain’t Mr. What’s-your-name?—Maddison! What you doing down here? You should have come and seen me down Tooley Street: this ain’t my pitch.”
Twice he looked back furtively over his shoulder.
“You thought I was a detective?”
The thin lips of the man twisted in a leer.
“That’s what I said. No, I thought you was one of Connor’s lot. They chased me out of Rotherhithe to-night, said I’d been ‘nosing’ on ’em. That’s why I’m round here. Connor’s crowd always thinks that someone’s been nosing if one of his gang’s dragged.”
“Nosing? You mean spying?”
“Giving ’em away to the police,” explained Mr. Lewing. “Connor’s brother got caught the other night and they got a yarn down Tooley Street that I’d done it.”
Luke began dimly to understand.
“Come down here.”
The clawlike hands of Lewing caught him and dragged him down a narrow, ill-lit street.
“I’m nervous to-night,” he said, and here he was speaking the truth, for his voice became a little whimpering gasp. “You’re a gentleman, Mr. Maddison. You’d help a pore feller to get away. You know what Connor is—he’d knife you for twopence. Bumping off, he calls it—he’s an American; at least, he’s been in Sing Song.… Sing Sing, is it? Anyway, it’s a stir. A couple of quid’d get me out of London.”
“I haven’t got a couple of pounds with me,” said Luke.
He was already weary of the companionship, and, but for being in his present condition, would never have submitted to being dragged into this foul little street.
“Perhaps I can call at your office in the morning?” Lewing’s voice betrayed his anxiety. And then, as he remembered: “I give that ten pounds to the Gunner——”
“You gave nothing to the Gunner,” said Luke coldly. “Mr. Bird told me all about you.”
There was an embarrassed silence.
“Anyway, I’d like you to stay with me, sir,” said the man. “I called you a busy just now, and you look like a busy. If any of them Connors see me with a busy they’ll——”
They had just turned the corner into an even narrower street, and Lewing stopped suddenly, Four dark shapes, two on the pavement, two in the roadway, confronted them. Luke surveyed them curiously. They all seemed to have caps drawn over their eyes; each man had both hands in his pockets.
“Here, what’s the idea, Joe?” Lewing’s voice was a whine. “This gentleman is taking me round——”
The leader of the four laughed harshly.
“You’ve got to have a busy with you, have you?” he said with an oath. “You ain’t satisfied with nosing on us Connors, but you got to carry Scotland Yard strapped under your arm. That’s yours, Lewing!”
To Luke it only seemed that the man had edged a little closer to Lewing as he spoke. Lewing coughed and fell groggily against Luke.
“Get the busy,” said a snarling voice.
Luke swung back but not quite in time. He saw the glitter of steel and felt as though a hot iron had been drawn across his breast; and then a curious weakness came on him, and he leaned back against the wall and gradually slipped into a sitting position. His last conscious impression was the clattering feet of running men; four dark shapes vanished into a greater darkness, and he was left alone, with something that sprawled across the pavement, staring with unseeing eyes at the flickering light of the street lamps.
CHAPTER X

At noon the next day Mr. Danton Morell called with all the news procurable—and that was not much.
“He seems to have disappeared from London, but I shouldn’t be very much alarmed about that,” he said.
Margaret Maddison sat white faced by her writing table, playing with a pen. She had not slept at all since Luke’s butler had wakened her at midnight to ask for information about his master. Early that morning she had weakened sufficiently to ring up Luke’s office, only to find that she had communicated her own alarm to Mr. Stiles.
“Naturally he wants to worry you,” said Danty with a little smile. “That’s part of his scheme. I dare say if you had told old Stiles that you were ready to give a check for——”
“I told Mr. Stiles that I’d give him a check for any money he wanted,” she said.
Her voice was a little cold and hard. Danty grew alarmed. He was evidently on the wrong track; it was not easy to find the right one.
“Then, if I may say so, you were extremely foolish. After all, you know the man; you know exactly what poor Rex thought of him; you went into this with your eyes open——”
“I know.” She was impatient. “I would do it again, I think—perhaps in another way. I was rather—brutal.”
She rose from the table and walked slowly across to the fireplace, took a cigarette from an enamelled box on the mantelpiece, lit it, only to throw it into the fire.
“I am worried, Danton,” she admitted. “I haven’t the stamina for hate. I haven’t even the illusion that I’ve done right.”
“Stiles took your check, of course?”
She shook her head.
“No; he said it wouldn’t be necessary. I think Luke must have told him about—everything. He was very sharp with me, almost rude.”
“Fire him,” said Danty promptly. “Don’t forget that you own the bank——”
“I do not own the bank,” she interrupted. “My lawyer rang me up this morning to say that by an omission the bank property was not included in the contract—and I am glad. Of course I shall transfer back to Luke every penny I have taken from him.”
“Are you mad?”
He almost shouted the words.
She had not seen this Danton before, and she stared at him in amazement. He realized his mistake instantly.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, almost humbly. “I’m thinking of you; I’m thinking of how easily his disappearance may be a trick, as I’m perfectly sure it is. It is like you to want to give him back his money, but suppose you do, what then? You’re married to him; he’s hardly likely to give you grounds for divorce, and the net result of your generosity would be that you would be penniless, dependent on his charity for every farthing.”
She thought for a long time on this, looking down into the fire. It was difficult to know what Margaret was thinking about: her face was set; the side view he had of her eyes told him nothing.
“I wanted to hurt him, and yet I was very frightened. If he had only said something, if he had only abused me… it was awful!”
She closed her eyes as though to shut out the memory of Luke’s face.
“He’ll be back to-night,” said Danty cheerfully, “and then you’d better settle it among yourselves. I’m almost beginning to regret that I gave you any advice, and yet God knows I did not act from self-interest.”
“Why, of course not.” She held out her hand impulsively and he took it. He was now mastering the situation.
Yet he was puzzled, and all the way home he was trying to find a likely explanation for Luke’s disappearance. He had formed an estimate of Luke Maddison’s character, and his own prognosis of what would follow Margaret’s revelation was, frankly, that the man he hated would take one of two courses: he would either display an immense sanity and consult his solicitors, or he would go the way of Rex Leferre.
A newspaper placard attracted his attention; he tapped on the glass and stopped the cab to buy a copy of the journal. “Race Gang Murder,” said the contents bill, and Danty was interested in gang fights. The scene of the tragedy was unknown to him. In his more humble days he had worked North London. The Borough and Lambeth were terra incognita.
Danty tossed the paper on to the floor of the cab. It was one of those commonplace crimes which have no especial interest for the well-to-do classes, and just now he was on the verge of becoming one of that exclusive set.
It may be said that he had no exact plan as to what part he would play in the present situation. He could make money more easily with Luke out of the way, and with this fool girl Margaret controlling a fortune, than he could if he were working under the cold blue eyes of Luke who hated him. He had not disguised the fact, when he discussed Rex and the forgery, that he believed Rex was more victim than instigator of the crime.
His disappearance was really a sensible relief. It was hardly likely that his relationship with Margaret could have continued if she were in love with her husband and were guided by him. All that Danty planned was that Luke should cease to be a factor; and he had planned well. Whether he took his profits in one shape or another was a matter of indifference, except—the growing fascination that Margaret was exercising over him. He never saw her but there grew a stronger desire for another relationship than confidential friend. Once he had touched her hand by a well-timed accident. She had let her hand rest against his long enough to encourage the hope that he might go farther; but when he had followed up this opening she had left him in no doubt about her feelings. Margaret had the disconcerting habit of candour.
“I hope you aren’t going to be very silly, Danton, and imagine that you’re in love with me,” she said.
This was in the days when Rex was alive, and when her pulse beat a little quicker at the sound of Luke Maddison’s footstep.
Danty shrugged his shoulders. Women change; their charm is their inconsistency.
He stepped out of the taxi and turned to pay the driver.
“Morning, Mr. Morell.”
Danty brought his head round slowly. Where had the Sparrow come from? He had a most alarming trick of appearing from nowhere. As a matter of fact, Mr. Bird had been standing in the roadway but had been momentarily screened by the taxi.
“I thought I’d like to have a little chat with you,” he beamed. “Seen anything of Mr. Maddison?”
It was on the tip of Danty’s tongue to disclaim any acquaintance with Luke Maddison’s movements.
“Not since the marriage,” he said.
“Maybe he’s gone away alone on his honeymoon,” said the Sparrow, smiling broadly. “I can’t keep track of these modern ways of going on. I suppose you haven’t been on a honeymoon for a long time, Mr. Morell?”
His keen, bright eyes, half hidden behind the puffy eyelids, fixed Danton Morell like a gimlet. Danty did not flinch.
“I’ve never been married,” he said.
He could easily have ended the interview by brushing past the detective and walking into the vestibule of the building—it was his error that he submitted to the cross-examination.
“A pleasure to come,” said the Sparrow brightly. “I was having a little talk with Gunner Haynes about you.”
In spite of his self-control, Danton Morell felt the colour leave his face.
“Oh, were you?” he said defiantly. “And who is Gunner Haynes?”
“A low criminal,” said the Sparrow in melancholy tones. “I meet ’em—it’s my job. There’s a lot of things I like about the Gunner. First of all I like him because he never carries a gun, and secondly I do admire his memory! Got the memory of a horse, that old Gunner! He’s the sort of fellow that remembers the colour of the socks he was wearing the day the Armistice was signed. I shouldn’t be surprised if they were khaki. What colour socks did you wear that day, Mr. Morell?”
There was something so deadly in that question that Danton held his breath. On Armistice Day he had been serving a sentence of eighteen months in Peterhead Jail. Had the Gunner recognized and betrayed him? He had only to consider this possibility to find a reason for its rejection. If Gunner Haynes knew he was alive and get-at-able, he would tell no police officer. Very surely and expeditiously he would settle his own account.
“I can’t tell you what kind of socks I was wearing,” he drawled. “Are you interested in the hosiery business?”
Mr. Bird nodded solemnly.
“Especially gray socks,” he said; “gray woolen socks with a little broad arrow on the ankle.”
It was in perfect good-humour, and could not, by any effort of the imagination, be described as offensive. Before Danton could speak he went on:
“I suppose you can’t oblige me with information? I’d like to know why Mr. Maddison went away yesterday, and where he’s gone. I’m thinking of sending him a birthday present. How long are you staying in London, Mr. Morell?”
The question was asked abruptly; the eyes behind the heavy lids seemed to brighten when Danty answered.
“About a month.”
“I was thinking perhaps you’d be going next week.”
With a little nod he turned and went off in his heavy, ponderous fashion. Danty looked after him, biting his lip. He had received a warning. Though he would rather have the warning from the police than the more ungentle warning which Gunner Haynes would have delivered.
He was still pondering the detective’s words when he was dressing for dinner that night. It couldn’t have been the Gunner—Bird was guessing, hoping to surprise a confirmation of his suspicions.
Margaret and he were dining together that night, and when she ’phoned to him that afternoon he thought that she was cancelling the engagement, and had two convincing arguments to make her reconsider her decision. But she had merely ’phoned to ask him if he had any further news.
She was infinitely more cheerful when he saw her that night; was reaffirmed in her old determination.
“You’ll hear from him to-morrow smiled Danty over the coffee. “He’s not the sort of man who gets very far from the City of London, where the money is made!”
She sighed.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” she said.
At that moment two eminent surgeons stood, one on each side of a bed in St. Thomas’s Hospital. One of them folded his stethoscope and looked down at the unconscious patient with a little grimace.
“You haven’t found this man’s name, constable?”
The detective officer who sat by the bed shook his head.
“No, sir.”
The surgeon turned to his colleague.
“Pneumonia undoubtedly, Sir John,” he said briskly. “The lung is badly pierced—the pneumonia symptoms were to be expected, don’t you think?”
He beckoned the third of the party, the house surgeon, who was attending another patient on the other side of the ward.
“This fellow will probably die to-night,” he said, almost brightly. “I don’t see what you can do except to make him as comfortable as you can. Rather a superior-looking fellow to be a member of a gang.”
The unconscious man smiled and muttered a word.
“Sounded like ‘Margaret’ to me,” said the interested surgeon. “Pity you don’t know who he is, you might have notified his wife—I hardly think there’s time now.”
CHAPTER XI

It was the thirteenth day after the disappearance of Luke Maddison, and a day of fate for his wife, since it put a period to the long and agonizing hours of doubt and uncertainty, of self-reproach that at times approached self-loathing. Twice she had been on the point of acquainting the police, and twice had Danty stopped her.
It was a time of worry for Danty also, but from quite another cause.
What had puzzled, and to some degree comforted her, was the fact that Mr. Stiles, the manager of Maddison’s Bank, had shown no particular anxiety. She guessed, or knew, that Luke had told him of her act, for when she had offered her check it had been almost peremptorily refused. What she did not realize was that in the days before she became a factor in Luke Maddison’s life, and largely determined his actions, Luke was in the habit of disappearing into the blue. Invariably it was from Spain that Stiles had received a postcard notifying him of the imminent return of his employer. The country had a fascination for Luke Maddison. He spoke the language like a native. He was one of the few Englishmen who understood and enjoyed the punctilio of bull fighting, and he loved nothing better than to retire to some lodging in Cordoba or Ronda and, making that his headquarters, rove the countryside for weeks on end.
Stiles was uneasy, but he had that hope left, that in this great crisis of his affairs Luke Maddison had gone back to the scenes of his happy holidays.
During all this period of waiting Margaret Maddison had kept to her house. She was not seen in the fashionable restaurants she usually patronized, and her few friends never doubted that she was on her honeymoon. Danty had advised that she should take the car and go by night to a remote Cornish village and stay there till what he described as the “scandal” had blown over; but she was too worried about Luke to follow this counsel.
A telegram had come to her on this twelfth morning, and she had just ’phoned to Danton Morell asking him to call, when her butler came in with a card upon a salver. Margaret read the name and frowned.
“Miss Mary Bolford?” Who was she? “Tell her I’m not at home.”
“I told her that, madam,” said the man, “but she was rather cool about it. She said she knew you were in, and that she insisted upon seeing you.”
Margaret looked at the card again. In the left-hand corner where the address is usually inscribed were the words: Daily Post-Herald. She realized the futility of denying the interview; was in some terror, being wholly unacquainted with the ethics of journalism, that if she refused to see Miss Mary Bolford that interesting reporter (as she guessed her to be) might invent an interview, with painful consequences.
“Show her up, please,” she said.
She expected something rather mannish, or at best a girl who had developed her intellectual side at the expense of her appearance, and she was not prepared for the pretty girl in the neatly tailored costume who walked into the drawing room, displaying none of the nervousness nor showing the apologetic manner which Margaret expected.
“Are you Miss Bolford?” asked Margaret, in surprise.
The girl nodded her head and smiled.
“I’m a reporter: I suppose you gathered that from my card, Mrs. Maddison?”
Mrs. Maddison! It was the first time she had been called by that name, and somehow it seemed to bring home to her the tragedy of those past twelve days.
“I told the butler to say I was out to everybody. I am not feeling very well, and I’m staying in town——”
“That’s what I’ve come about—may I sit down?”
Margaret pointed to a chair, and the girl reporter settled herself comfortably.
“I realize that you think we’re being terrible, prying into your private affairs, but that is our business,” she said, with almost offensive brusqueness. “Newspaper readers love a romance, whether it is happy or unhappy, and we have news that your honeymoon was interrupted and that your husband had to go abroad—or has he gone abroad? Mr. Stiles—that’s the manager of the bank—suggested that he had, without saying as much.”
Margaret did not speak for a second, and then:
“My husband is abroad, yes.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Margaret was not prepared for so open an attack and for a second was nonplussed.
“Yes, I think I do,” she said at last; “but I am not aware that that is a matter of public interest.”
Mary Bolford looked at Margaret straightly and searchingly. She had rather nice gray eyes, and they were not at all hostile. The girl shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Maddison, but I think I can best help you, as well as help myself, if I am perfectly frank with you. We have a story that you quarrelled with your husband on your wedding day and that he——”
“Ran away?” suggested Margaret coldly.
“Well, not exactly that. The truth is, I’ve a very good friend at Scotland Yard, and he came to me to-day to ask if we on the newspaper had any information as to Mr. Maddison’s whereabouts. And of course we haven’t. Mr. Bird was not terribly communicative—Mr. Bird is Inspector Bird of the C.I.D.——”
“What is the C.I.D.?” asked Margaret mechanically. She was fighting for time. The mere mention of the detective frightened her—if she stood in terror of anything it was that kind of loose talk which is as loosely described as scandal.
The girl reporter explained. Again Margaret thought quickly.
“Suppose I were to tell you that we quarrelled? Is that a matter of public interest, too?” To her surprise, she discovered that accidentally she had produced an explanation for Luke’s disappearance which might be accepted without question.
“Of course not! You must think I’ve an awful cheek to come at all. The last thing we want to do is to pry into a purely personal matter. If that is the explanation I can only apologize and make a graceful exit!”
She rose briskly; but in those laughing eyes Margaret read sympathy.
“You see,” she went on, “if Mr. Maddison had been called away on his wedding day to conduct some big financial deal, or from almost any cause other than—well, the cause you’ve given, it would have been a really interesting story. I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Maddison.” She held out her hand impulsively and Margaret took it.
“I think I’m rather sorry, too,” she said, and sighed.
And then Mary Bolford saw her face grow hard.
“I was sorry yesterday—perhaps I’m not as sorry to-day. That’s rather cryptic, and I hope you won’t attempt to interpret it.”
She walked with the girl to the landing, and waited till she heard the door close upon her.
Danty had arrived during the interview; she had heard the butler show him into the small anteroom that adjoined the drawing room. She opened the door.
“Come in,” she said.
“Who was that?” asked Danton Morell, a little anxiously. “Fenning said that it was a reporter. What has she come about?”
Margaret smiled wryly.
“She was trying to find something romantic in my marriage,” she said. “I’m afraid even she’ll never find it—read this.”
She opened a drawer of the desk, took out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to him. It was a telegram addressed to Margaret Maddison:
You can hardly expect me to come back to you. In a few months I will furnish you with sufficient evidence to enable you to secure a divorce. I am not entirely without money, therefore I am not entirely without pleasant consolations.
It was signed “Luke,” and had been handed in at Paris at eight-thirty that morning.
“That’s that,” she said. Her tone was light, but there was an agitation in her heart which she had not imagined possible.
Consolations! And this was Luke Maddison, the idealist—a vulgar philanderer, who had fled to—consolations!
“I’m rather surprised that you got this,” said Danton gravely. “I shouldn’t have thought he would have troubled to wire.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Stiles probably knows his address, and may have telegraphed to him that the police were making inquiries——”
“The police?” Danty’s voice was sharp. “Who told you the police were inquiring?”
She related all that Mary Bolford had told her, and saw his face grow troubled.
“The Sparrow—that’s the name they’ve given Bird. He hasn’t been here?”
She shook her head. He was very thoughtful; stood for the space of a moment rather tense, his eyes narrowed, his mind very far away.
“What are you going to do?” he asked at last.
“Immediately? I’m leaving for Madeira on Saturday. The sea voyage will be good for me, and I shall be spared the experience of passing through—Paris.” Her lips curled at the word.
She saw he was perturbed, and instantly he blurted the reason.
“I don’t think I could get away on Saturday,” he began, and she smiled.
 “There’s no need for you to get away, Danton. I am going alone. I want to think things out.”
He was dismayed, though he did not show his feelings.
“How long will you be away?”
“A month perhaps,” she said. “I’m going to ask you to be an angel and to look after things for me—I will probably give you a power of attorney; you’ll make much better use of it than I made of Luke’s!”
Had she been looking for it, she would have seen relief in his face. Danton was rather obvious beyond a certain point.
“I’ll do anything, of course,” he said.
The rest of their conversation was general, and he left very soon after. When he had gone, she opened the morning newspaper, more interested in the weather prospects than anything else. On the centre page of the Post-Herald she saw the photograph of a haggard and unshaven man. It had evidently been taken in a hospital bed. His eyes were closed; the photograph just showed the edge of the sheet a few inches under his chin.
“Do You Know This Man?” demanded the headline.
She glanced at the letter-press, and saw that it had reference to a murder that had been committed in South London, and that he whose picture was shown had been present and had only escaped death by the narrowest of margins. Not even his dearest friend would have recognized Luke Maddison, for the photograph had not been taken until the eleventh day of his detention in hospital, and it had been taken in a very poor light.