CHAPTER XIV
THE VENGEANCE OF TAI-K’AN
At that moment Lola, who was shopping in London, entered and her father cut off quickly.
The girl glanced at me and smiled. Then she asked some question regarding the purchase of some cutlery, and on her father replying she left the flat.
After she had gone, he resumed the narrative, which was certainly of deep interest, as you will see.
He went on:
In the first week in January, a gay house-party assembled at Hawstead Park, Lord Teesdale’s fine old Elizabethan seat a few miles from Malton, not very far from Overstow. The shooting-parties at Hawstead were well known for their happy enjoyment. They were talked about in the drawing-rooms of Yorkshire and clubs in town each year, for Lady Teesdale was one of the most popular of hostesses and delighted in surrounding herself with young people.
So it was that Charlie Otley, on his arrival, met Peggy in the big paneled hall, and by her side stood young Eastwood, the fair-haired effeminate son of Lord Drumone. The party assembled at tea consisted of some twenty guests, most of them young. After dinner that night there was, of course, dancing upon the fine polished floor.
Before Lady Urquhart, Otley was compelled to exercise a good deal of caution, allowing young Eastwood to dance attendance upon Peggy while he, in turn, spent a good deal of time with Maud Bainbridge, the rather angular daughter of the steel magnate. Towards Mrs. Bainbridge and his hostess Charlie was most attentive, but all the time he was watching Peggy with the elegant young idler to whom Lady Urquhart hoped to marry her.
Now and then Peggy would glance across the room meaningly, but he never once asked her to dance, so determined was he that her mother should not suspect the true state of affairs. His position, however, was not a very pleasant one, therefore part of the time he spent in the great old smoking-room with his host, Sir Polworth, and several other guests, some of them being women, for nowadays the ladies of a country house-party invariably invade the room which formerly was sacred to the men.
When the dance had ended and the guests were about to retire, Otley managed to whisper a word to the girl he loved. He made an appointment to meet her at a secluded spot in the park near the lodge on the following morning at eleven.
She kept the appointment, and when they met she stood for a few moments clasped in her lover’s arms.
“I had such awful difficulty to get away from Cecil,” she said, laughing. She looked a sweet attractive figure in her short tweed skirt, strong country shoes and furs. “He wanted to go for a walk with me. So I slipped out and left him guessing.”
Her companion remained silent.
A few moments later they turned along a path which led to a stile, and thence through a thick wood of leafless oaks and beeches. Along the winding path carpeted with dead leaves they strolled hand-in-hand, until suddenly Otley halted, and in a thick hoarse voice quite unusual to him, said:
“Peggy. I – I have something to say to you. I – I have to go back to London.”
“To London – why?” gasped the girl in dismay.
“Because – well, because I can’t bear to be here with the glaring truth ever before me – that I – ”
“What do you mean?” she asked, laying her hand upon his arm.
“I mean, dearest,” he said in a low, hard voice, “I mean that we can never marry. There is a barrier between us – a barrier of disgrace!”
“Of disgrace!” she gasped. “Oh! do explain, dear.”
“The explanation is quite simple,” he replied in a tone of despair. “You asked me in Paris what worried me. Well, Peggy, I’ll confess to you,” he went on, lowering his voice, his eyes downcast. “I am not worthy your love, and I here renounce it, for – for I am a thief!”
“A thief!” she echoed. “How?”
“I’ve been hard up of late, and at the motor show I sold three cars, for which I have not accounted to the firm. The books will be audited next week and my defalcations discovered. I have no means of repaying the four thousand five hundred pounds, and therefore I shall be arrested and sent to prison as a common thief. That’s briefly the position!”
The girl was speechless at such staggering revelations. Charlie – a thief! It seemed incredible.
“But have you no means whatever of raising the money?” she asked at last, her face pale, while the gloved hand that lay upon his arm trembled.
“None. I’ve tried all my friends, but money is so difficult to raise nowadays. No, Peggy,” he added with suppressed emotion, “let me go my own way – and try to forget me. Now that I am in disgrace it is only right that I should make a clean breast of it to you, and then you alone will understand why I have made excuse to Lady Teesdale and left.”
“Oh, you mustn’t do that, dear,” she urged. “Stay over the week-end! Something will turn up. Do please me by staying.”
“I feel that I really can’t,” he answered. “I’m an outsider to have thus brought unhappiness on you, but it is my fault. I am alone to blame. You must have your freedom and forget me. I took the money to pay a debt of honor, thinking that I could repay it by borrowing elsewhere. But I find I can’t, therefore I must face the music next week. Even if I ran away I should soon be found and arrested.”
“Poor boy!” sighed the girl, stroking his cheek tenderly, while in her eyes showed the light of unshed tears. “Don’t worry. Stay here with me – at least till Monday.”
But he shook his head sadly.
“I couldn’t bear it, my darling,” he answered in a low voice. “How can I possibly enjoy dancing and fun when I know that in a few days I shall go to prison in disgrace. My firm are not the kind of people to let me off.”
“Four thousand five hundred!” the girl repeated as though to herself.
“Yes. And I haven’t the slightest prospect of getting it anywhere. If I could only borrow it I could sail along into smooth waters again. But that is quite out of the question.”
Peggy remained silent for a few moments. Then, of a sudden, she looked straight into her lover’s eyes, and taking his hand in hers said:
“Poor dear! What can I do to help you?”
“Nothing,” was his low reply. “Only – only forget me. That’s all. You can’t marry a man who’s been to prison.”
Again a silence fell between them, while the dead leaves whirled along the path.
“But you will stay here over the week-end, won’t you, dear?” she urged. “I ask you to do so. Do not refuse me – will you?”
He tried to excuse himself. But she clung to him and kissed him, declaring that at least they might spend the week-end together before he left to face the worst.
Her lover endeavored to point out the impossibility of their marriage, but she remained inexorable.
“I still love you, Charlie – even though you are in such dire straits. And I do not intend that you shall go back to London to brood over your misfortune. Keep a stout heart, dear, and something may turn up after all,” she added, as they turned and went slowly back over the rustling leaves towards the park.
He now realized that she loved him with a strong and fervent affection, even though he had confessed to her his offense. And that knowledge caused his burden of apprehension the harder to bear.
That night there were, after the day’s shooting, merry junketings at Hawstead, and Charles Otley bore himself bravely though his heart was heavy. Ever and anon when Peggy had opportunity she whispered cheering words to him, words that encouraged him, though none of the gay party dreamed that they were chatting and dancing with a man who would in a few days stand in a criminal dock.
Next day was Sunday. The whole house-party attended the village church in the morning, and in the afternoon the guests split up and went for walks.
Soon after dinner Otley, whose seat had been between the steel magnate’s wife and her daughter, went outside on the veranda alone. He was in no mood for bridge and preferred a breath of air outside. As he let himself out by one of the French windows of the small drawing-room in the farther wing of the house, a dark figure brushed past him swiftly, and next second had vaulted over the ironwork of the veranda and was lost in the dark bushes beyond.
As the stranger had paused to leap from the veranda, a ray of light from the window had caught his countenance. It was only for one brief second, yet Charlie had felt convinced that the countenance was that of a Chinaman. Besides the stealthy cat-like movement of the man was that of an Oriental. Yet what could a Chinaman be doing about that house?
He was half inclined to tell his host, yet on reflecting, he thought the probability was that it was some stranger who, attracted by the music and laughter within, had been trying to get a glimpse of the gay party.
That night, as the auction bridge proceeded, Otley withdrew from it and went to his room, where he sat down and wrote two notes – one to Peggy and the other to his hostess. In the latter he apologized that he had been suddenly recalled to London on some very urgent business, and that he would leave Malton by the first train in the morning.
The note to Peggy he placed in his pocket, and returning to the room where they were now dancing, found her in a flimsy cream gown, sleeveless and cut low – a dress that suited her to perfection – dancing with apparent merriment with young Eastwood, though he knew that her heart was sad. But her face was flushed by excitement, and she was entering thoroughly into the country-house gayety. Presently, however, he was able to slip the note into her hand and whisper a good-by.
“I shall be in London on Tuesday and will call at Bennett Street in the evening. We will then talk it all over, dear. Don’t despair – for my sake – don’t despair!” she said.
And compelled to slip back to the ballroom, she crushed the note into her corsage.
Early next morning a car took Charlie to the station, and soon after luncheon he reëntered his rooms. The day was Monday, wet and dreary. All hope had left him, for his defalcations must be discovered and the directors would, without a doubt, prosecute him. Hence he went about London interested in nothing and obsessed by the terrible disgrace which must inevitably befall him.
On the evening of his sudden departure from Hawstead, at about half-past six, the house-party was thrown into a state of great concern by the amazing announcement that Mrs. Bainbridge had lost her jewels – the unique string of precious stones which had once belonged to the late Sultan Abdul Hamid! Mrs. Bainbridge’s maid discovered the loss when her mistress went to dress for dinner.
She declared that on the previous evening she had placed them out upon a little polished table set against the heavy red-plush curtains and close to the dressing-table. She believed that her mistress had worn them upon her corsage on the Sunday night, and that on retiring she had locked them in her jewel-box. On the contrary, Mrs. Bainbridge did not wear them, a fact to which everyone testified. The millionaire’s wife had left the Sultan’s famous jewels upon the little polished table when she descended for dinner on Sunday night, and naturally concluded that her maid – who had been with her over twelve years – would see them and place them in safety.
Suspicion instantly fell upon Charles Otley. Old Mr. Bainbridge was, of course, furious, whereupon Lord Teesdale took it upon himself to go at once to London to see Otley.
This he did, and when that afternoon Sanford showed his lordship unexpectedly into the room, the young man stood aghast at the news.
“Tell me, Otley – if you know nothing of this affair – why, then, did you leave Hawstead so suddenly?” he demanded.
“Because I had business here in town,” was his reply. Instantly across his mind flashed the recollection of the incident of the fleeting figure which he believed to be that of an Oriental. He related to his late host the exact facts. But Lord Teesdale listened quite unimpressed. As a matter of fact, he felt, in his own mind, that the young fellow was the thief.
The story of the Chinaman was far too fantastic for his old-fashioned mind. He had heard of the Chinese, the opium traffic and suchlike things, and he saw in Otley’s statement a distinct attempt to mislead him.
The police were not called in because Mr. Bainbridge did not desire to bring the Teesdales’ house-party into the newspapers, and, moreover, both he and his wife were confident that young Otley was the thief.
Peggy hearing her lover denounced so openly, was naturally full of indignation, though she hardly dared show it.
Sir Polworth and his wife and daughter returned to London as early as possible, for the spirits of all the guests had fallen in consequence of Mrs. Bainbridge’s loss.
And now a curious thing happened.
That evening Charlie, knowing himself under suspicion of stealing the jewels, had an intuition that it would be better if Peggy did not visit him at Bennett Street. Therefore at about half-past five, when darkness had fallen, he went along to Mount Street, and there watched outside Sir Polworth’s house.
After a little while an empty taxi which had evidently been summoned by telephone, stopped at the door, and Peggy, very plainly dressed, got into it and drove away. Another taxi happened to be near, therefore her lover, unable to shout and stop her, got into it and followed her.
They went along Piccadilly, and passing Arlington Street, which led into Bennett Street, continued away to the Strand and across the City eastward, until Otley was seized with curiosity as to the girl’s destination.
Past Aldgate went the taxi and down Commercial Road East, that broad long thoroughfare that leads to the East India Docks. At Limehouse Church the taxi stopped, and Peggy alighted and paid the man.
Almost immediately a young man, the cut of whose overcoat and the angle of whose hat at once marked him as a Spaniard, approached her. Otley, full of wonder, had alighted from his taxi at some distance away and was eagerly watching.
Peggy and the stranger exchanged a few words, whereupon he started off along a narrow and rather ill-lit road called Three Colt Street, past Limehouse Causeway. Suddenly it occurred to the young man that they were in the center of London’s Chinatown! He recollected the escaping Chinaman from Lord Teesdale’s house! But why was Peggy there? Surely she was not a drug-taker! The very thought caused him to shudder.
Silently he followed the pair before him, and saw them turn into a narrow by-street and halt at a small house. Her conductor knocked on the door four times. And then repeated the summons.
The door opened slowly and they entered. Then, when the door was closed again, Peggy’s lover crept along and listened at the shutter outside.
Why was she there? He stood bewildered. She had promised to call upon him at his rooms, and yet she was there in that low-class house – a veritable den it seemed!
The window was closely shuttered, as were all in that mysterious silent thoroughfare – one into which the police would hardly venture to penetrate alone.
The young man listened, his ears strained to catch any sound.
Suddenly he heard Peggy shriek. He listened breathlessly. Yes, it was her voice raised distinctly.
“You!” he heard her cry. “You! You are Tai-K’an! My father has told me of you!”
“Ye-es, my lil ladee – you are lil ladee of the Engleesh mandarin!” he heard the reply – the reply of a Chinaman. “I now take my vengeance for my own child as I have each year promised. Give me the pretty jewels. You wanted to sell them, eh? But you will give them to me! I watched you take them from the table while they were all at the party. Your father never thought that Tai-K’an followed you on your country journey, eh?”
Otley heard the words faintly through the shutters and stood rooted to the spot.
Peggy was the thief? She had wanted to sell them and had been entrapped. In an instant he realized her position.
He heard her voice raised first in faint protest, and then she implored the Chinaman to release her.
“Ah, no!” cried the cruel triumphant Oriental. “Tai-K’an warned your father that he would have his revenge. His daughter was to him as much as you are to your own father the mandarin,” and he laughed that short, grating laugh of the Chinaman, which caused Otley to clench his fists.
For a few seconds he hesitated as to how he should act. Then, quick as his feet could carry him, he dashed back into the Commercial Road, where he enlisted the aid of a constable.
Together they hurried back to the house after the young man had made a brief statement that a white girl had been entrapped.
At first they were denied admittance, but when the constable demanded that the door should be opened, the bars were drawn and they entered the wretched den.
Peggy was naturally terrified until she heard her lover’s voice, and a few seconds later the pair were locked once more in each other’s arms, but the gems of Abdul Hamid were nowhere to be found. Indeed, neither Peggy nor Charlie dared mention the stolen jewels, so the Chinaman kept them.
“Do you wish to charge this Chink?” asked the constable of the girl. “If so, I’ll take him along to the station at once.”
But at Charlie’s suggestion she would prefer no charge, and after profuse thanks to the policeman, they found a taxi and drove back at once to Bennett Street.
On the way Peggy sobbed as she confessed to the theft; how, in desperation, she had stolen those wonderful jewels from Mrs. Bainbridge’s room in the hope of raising sufficient money to pay Charlie’s defalcations, and how she had two days later received a mysterious letter asking her if she happened to have any discarded jewelry that she wished to dispose of secretly. If she had, an appointment could be made at Limehouse Church. It was, she thought, an opportunity. So she took the jewels to sell to them. But to her amazement and horror she had found herself in the hands of the revengeful Chinaman who had a, possibly just, grievance against her father.
Rayne, taking the magnificent jewels and running them through his hands, said:
“The Chink is a friend of ours, and we’ve had our eye upon these stones for a very long time, but rather than the young fellow and the girl shall be ruined I am sending them back to Mrs. Bainbridge’s anonymously by to-night’s post. Sir Polworth Urquhart will think they have come from Tai-K’an. See, Hargreave? I’ve typed out a letter. Just pack them up and address them to her. I can’t bear to take them now I know the truth – poor girl!”
And he handed the gems over to me, together with a small wooden box.
That evening I registered the box from the post office at Darlington, and three days later Charles Otley, who had managed to clear himself of all suspicion, received an anonymous gift of four thousand five hundred pounds which had been placed to his credit at the bank.
And none of the actors in that strange drama suspect the hand of the clever, unscrupulous, but sometimes generous, Squire of Overstow.
CHAPTER XV
OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY
“
Mr. Hargreave, father is sending you upon a very strange mission,” Lola told me in confidence one dull morning, after we had had breakfast at the Midland Hotel, in Manchester, where we three were staying about a fortnight after Rayne’s generosity in returning the famous jewels of the dead Sultan.
“What kind of mission?” I inquired with curiosity, as we sat together in the lounge prior to going out to idle at the shop windows.
“I don’t know its object at all,” was her reply. “But from what I’ve gathered it is something most important. I – I do hope you will take care of yourself – won’t you?” she asked appealingly.
“Why, of course,” I laughed. “I generally manage to take care of myself. I’d do better, however, if – well, if I were not associated with Duperré and the rest,” I added bitterly.
The pretty girl was silent for a few moments. Then she said:
“Of course you won’t breathe a word of what I’ve said, will you?”
“Certainly not, Lola,” was my reply. “Whatever you tell me never passes my lips.”
“I know – I know I can trust you, Mr. Hargreave,” she exclaimed. “Well, in this matter there are several mysterious circumstances. I believe it is something political my father wants to work – some business which concerns something in the Near East. That’s all I know. You will, in due course, hear all about it. And now let’s go along to Deansgate. I want to buy something.”
In consequence we strolled along together, Rayne having gone out an hour before to keep an appointment – with whom he carefully concealed from me.
That same night Rayne disclosed to me the mission which he desired me to carry out. He was a man of a hundred moods and as many schemes.
One fact which delighted me was that in the present suggestion there seemed no criminal intent. And for that reason I quite willingly left London for the Near East three days later.
My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and the journey by the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one.
I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had undertaken to carry out in Sofia. My patriotism had led me to attempt a very difficult task – one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of courage and resource, but which would, if successful, Rayne had said, mean that a loan of three millions would be raised in London, and that British influence would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which ere long must be the power of the Balkans.
The tentacles of the great criminal octopus which Rayne controlled were indeed far-spread. In this he was making a bid for fortune, without a doubt.
To the majority of people, the Balkan States are, even to-day, terra incognita. The popular idea is that they are wild, inaccessible countries, inhabited by brigands. That is not so. True, there are brigands, even now after the war, in the Balkans, but Belgrade, the Serbian capital, is as civilized as Berlin, and the main boulevard of Sofia, whither I was bound, is at night almost a replica of the Boulevard des Italiens.
I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as myself, emissaries of other Governments and other financial houses. Therefore in those three long, never-ending days and nights which the journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with the thoughts of the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my object.
The run East was uneventful, save for one fact – at the Staatsbahnhof, at Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little old man in brown entered and was given the compartment next to mine.
His nationality I could not determine. He spoke in a deep guttural voice with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes – which were rather dandified for so old a man – I did not believe him to be a native of the Fatherland.
I heard him rumbling about with his bags in the next compartment, apparently settling himself, when of a sudden, my quick ear caught an imprecation which he uttered to himself in English.
A few hours later, at dinner in the wagon-restaurant, I found him placed at the same little table opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. He spoke in French, perfect French it was, but refused to speak English, though, of course, he could had he wished.
“Ah! non,” he laughed. “I cannot. Excuse me. My pronunciation is so faulty. Your English is so ve-ry deefecult!”
And so we talked in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his way to Sofia. He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black, piercing eyes that gave him a most striking appearance. His grey hair was long, his nose aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow; and he was a grumbler of the most pronounced type. He growled at the food, at the service, at the draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared to be only Danish margarine.
His complaints were amusing. At first the maître d’hôtel bustled about to do the bidding of the newcomer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting sarcasm of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lit and all its works.
Next day, at Semlin, where our passports were examined, the passport officer took off his hat to him, bowed low and viséd his passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its owner:
“Bon voyage, Highness.”
I stared at the pair. My fussy friend with the big head must therefore be either a prince or a grand duke!
As I sat opposite him at dinner that night, he was discussing with me the harmful writings of some newly discovered Swiss author who was posing as a cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community. He leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven chin upon his fingers, displaying to me – most certainly by accident – the palm of his thin right hand.
What I discovered there caused me a great deal of surprise. In its center was a dark, livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a pet dog’s pad!
It fascinated me. There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt convinced. It was just as though a small dog had stepped in blood with one of its forepaws and trodden upon his hand.
Whether he noticed that I had detected it or not, I cannot say, but he moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed.
His name, he told me, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in Athens. But I took that information cum grano, for I instinctively knew him to be a prince traveling incognito. Before the passport officer at Semlin, every one must pass before entering Serbia.
But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport?
There is no good hotel at Sofia. The best is called the Grand Hôtel de Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady, and in this we found ourselves next night installed. He, of course, gave his name as Vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a stranger in the Bulgarian capital than I myself was, for I had been there previously once just before the war.
Now Rayne had given me a letter of introduction to a certain Nicolas Titeroff, who contrived rather mysteriously to get me elected to the smart diplomats’ club – the Union – during my stay.
The days passed. From the first morning of my arrival I found myself at once in the vortex of gayety; invitations poured in upon me – thanks to the black-bearded Titeroff – cards for dances here and there and receptions and dinners, while I spent each afternoon with Titeroff and a wandering Englishman named Mayhew, who told me he was an ex-colonel in the British Army.
All the while, I must confess, I was working my cards carefully. Thanks to the mysterious Titeroff I had received an introduction to Nicholas Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired Minister of Finance, who had early in life lost his right arm at the battle of the Shipka Pass – and he was inclined to admit my proposals. A French syndicate had approached him, but Petkoff would have none of them.
The mission entrusted to me by Rayne was one which, if I could obtain the Government Concession which I asked, would mean the formation of a great company and a matter of millions. And it seemed to me that my black-bearded friend Titeroff, and Mayhew, were both pulling the strings cleverly for me in the right direction. Often I considered whether they were both crooks and members of the gang organized by Rayne. I could not determine.
One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club – a function at which the smart set of Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers of State themselves with their women-folk put in an appearance – I had been waltzing with the Minister Petkoff’s daughter, a pretty, dark-haired girl in blue, whom I had met at Titeroff’s house – when presently the Turkish attaché, a pale-faced young man in a fez, introduced me to a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black evening gown.
Mademoiselle Balesco was her name, and I found her inexpressibly charming. She spoke French perfectly, and English quite well. She had been at school in England, she said – at Scarborough. Her home was at Galatz, in Roumania.
We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper. Then we had a couple of fox-trots, and I conducted her out to the car that was awaiting her and bowing, watched her drive off, alone.
But while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow, the short, ugly figure of the old Greek, Vassos, with his coat collar turned up, evidently passing without noticing me.
A few days later when in the evening I was chatting with Mayhew at the hotel, he said:
“What have you been up to, Hargreave? Look here! This letter was left upon me, with a note, asking me to give it to you in secret. Looks like a woman’s hand! Mind what you’re about in this place, old chap. There are some nasty pitfalls, you know!”
With a bachelor’s curiosity he was eager to know who was my fair correspondent. But I refused to satisfy him.
Suffice it to say that that same night I went alone to a house on the outskirts of Sofia, and there met, at her urgent request, Marie Balesco. After apologizing for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the wind, she seemed to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons that had brought me to Bulgaria.
Like most women of to-day, she smoked, and offered me her cigarette-case. I took one – a delicious one it was, but rather strong – so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me. Before I could fight against it, the small, well-furnished room seemed to whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious. Indeed, I knew no more until, on awakening, I found myself back in my bed at the Hôtel de Bulgarie.
I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect what had occurred.
My hand seemed strangely painful. Raising it from the sheets, I looked at it.