"It's safe enough with me," said Flora. "You can bet your boots I shan't blab."

A silvery toned bell sounded from the house.

"There's tea," said Isabel.

The two girls rose and moved away arm in arm.

Mr. Harrison Smith pulled out his watch and looked at the dial.

"With luck I can catch it," said he.

And through the drawing room window Mrs. Barraclough saw the unusual spectacle of a clergyman running like fury in the direction of the railway station. As she remarked a few moments later:

"This is indeed an age of speed. Even the delivery of the Gospel is conducted by express service."

CHAPTER 20.

A LITTLE HOUSEBREAKING.

The train which conveyed Mr. Harrison Smith back to London stopped at every intermediate station and did not arrive until after ten o'clock.

He, therefore, was given leisure for thought and the result of his thinking was to bring him perilously near the truth.

He began with the premise that somehow Anthony Barraclough had succeeded in making good his escape--that he was even now obtaining the concession--that he would return to London on the night of the 18th instant at eleven o'clock in all probability carrying the doc.u.ment upon his person. All this was plain sailing but against it was the established fact that Anthony Barraclough was imprisoned in Laurence's house. If this were indeed the case further investigation was useless.

But was it the case?

The girl Isabel Irish had said there was a plan to make his exit from London easy but no evidence had been given to suggest that this plan, whatever it was, had been put into operation. Torrington's syndicate was not composed of fools and yet the kidnapping of Barraclough had been mere child's play without a speck of opposition. His own side had been guilty of an act of cra.s.s stupidity in failing to carry off the servant Doran as well as his master. It was one of those tragic oversights which occur in the most carefully laid plans.

Unquestionably Doran would have told his employers what happened on the night of the 27th and they could hardly have failed to guess the truth.

And yet, as private information a.s.sured him, not the smallest effort had been made to rescue the man in whose brain was a secret worth millions. And quite suddenly the truth, or a guess at the truth, dawned upon him. Torrington's crowd must have been aware of the intention to kidnap Barraclough and for a reason known only to themselves had deliberately allowed it to take place. Why? Had another man been sent in Barraclough's place? He dismissed that theory without dissection. The shape of Barraclough's jaw and the line of his mouth belonged to the type that does not unduly trust his fellow men.

Why? Was another man occupying Barraclough's place--deputising for him in his absence?

Harrison Smith struck one hand against the other. "By G.o.d," he exclaimed. "It's the most unlikely thing in the world but I'm going to believe it. I'm going to believe that the chap with the humorous lines round his eyes is no more Barraclough than I am."

He alighted at Waterloo Station aglow with excitement. His first thought was to proceed post haste to Laurence's house and lay before them the result of his deductions, but a second and more personal consideration dissuaded him. There had been little enough encouragement when last he interfered. He had been rudely ordered to leave things alone. No, he would work out this deal himself and if anything came of it approach Van Diest and Hipps for a lion's share of the plunder. Weeks ago it had been arranged; if by any means Barraclough succeeded in slipping through the outposts and obtaining the concession, he was to be quietly thugged on his return and the paper destroyed. As Ezra Hipps had said, "If we fail to get it for ourselves it's d.a.m.n sure no one else is going to profit." Wherefore all he had to do was to intercept the returning treasure seeker, put him securely away and then talk business to his own employers.

Harrison Smith hailed a taxi and told the driver to go down the Commercial Road as far as the Poplar Town Hall. This was not a job that could be tackled single handed--on the other hand it would be unwise to admit more people to his confidence than were absolutely necessary. He dismissed the taxi and proceeded on foot down one of the narrow crooked byways abounding in that region. The place was quiet and deserted save for a few Orientals--Lascars and Chinamen--who leaned against the walls of their dwellings in silent contemplation of the stars.

At the side door of a small and disreputable public house he paused and knocked thrice with the handle of his cane and presently the door was opened by a girl. She was a Jewess and lovely to look at, with the fresh, shameless beauty peculiar to very young girls of that faith.

Recognising Harrison Smith she smiled a welcome and said:

"You're in luck--he's sober! Upstairs, in the front room."

She smiled again, revealing a perfect row of little white teeth which mocked the string of cheap pearls at her throat. As he climbed the stairs Harrison Smith speculated on the odd contrast this girl presented to her surroundings. The silk of her stockings, the bangles and gewgaws, the ultra patent leather of her shoes, bore so little relation to the squalor of the narrow pa.s.sage with its damp stained walls, carpetless floor and hissing gas jet. Probably nowhere in the world do greater incongruities exist than in the East End of London.

Mr. Alfred Bolt, minus coat, collar, tie and shoes, was seated in an arm chair, his feet reposing upon the mantel-piece. At his elbow was a gla.s.s of whiskey and water with a slice of lemon floating on the surface. His waistcoat was undone and the white of his shirt emphasised the enormous girth of his corporation. His legs were short, his hands fat, his face round and margined with a half circle of hair beneath the chin. At the first glance you would have taken him for the model from which Will Owen must have ill.u.s.trated the stories of W. W.

Jacobs. One would have expected him to remind the pa.s.ser-by that it was "a nice day for a sail" or alternatively to demand "Any more for the Skylark?" But a closer inspection would have shaken the foundation of so simple a belief for Mr. Alfred Bolt's eyes were not of the honest kind worn by men who go down to the sea in ships. They were close set, narrow lidded, cunning, piggy little eyes that caused unrest to look upon.

At the sight of Harrison Smith he removed his feet from the mantelpiece and extended an open armed welcome.

"Welcome and thrice welcome, my dear brother," he intoned in an admirable imitation of the accepted ecclesiastical method. "I rejoice indeed to observe that you are now in Holy Orders." Then with a drop into the vernacular. "Blind me, Smith, what the h.e.l.l are you doing with your collar back to front?"

Harrison Smith gave a hurried explanation.

"But I thought that job was cleared up," said Bolt.

"Maybe it is, but there's a chance of a big coup that no one expected.

Now, if you care to take a hand."

Mr. Bolt fancied himself as a mimic, indeed he harboured the opinion that he was a peer even to the late Sir Henry Irving in the matter of "take offs." He could imitate a cat or a Chinaman, while his thumb nail impressions of sundry Hebraic neighbours were only rivalled by his flawless caricatures of natives of Germany or the New Hebrides. But best of all he loved to a.s.sume the inflexion, guise and bearing of a member of the clergy--a circ.u.mstance very possibly explained by the fact that his own private life was as far removed from the office of virtue as could be imagined.

"Be unafraid, my son," quoth he. "If your heart is full speak into my listening ear and may a blessing fall on your confession." Then fashioning a trumpet with his two hands he bellowed like a fog horn: "Becky! A drop of whiskey hot for the gent." And while the refreshment was being procured he observed parenthetically: "A nice little piece, ain't she? Very smart and dossy. Come on, Smith, my boy--my jolly old beau--dear old cracker, soak up the juice of the barley and expound the tale of woe."

Harrison Smith wasted no time in explaining the case while Bolt listened with great concentration, nodding approval at this point or that.

"Hm! Worth trying anyway," he agreed. "What do you want me to do?"

"Take over my place at Clyst St. Mary. Can't explain why but I've a sort of notion things may happen there. It's a queer household--lot of smart girls looking after an old woman--Barraclough's mother."

"What's she like?"

"Never got near enough to find out. Decent enough old thing. Goes to church a lot."

"Shrewd?"

"Never struck me so at a distance. Might be anything--bit of a fool--mostly are--that old country sort."

Mr. Bolt mused.

"Goes to church, does she." His eyes travelled over Harrison Smith's black garments. "Why didn't you call?"

"Didn't strike me. Fancy she knows very little."

"'Curs to me," said Bolt, "I might do the clergyman stunt myself in those parts. I've got some stuff. A bit of the old Wesley--'Quiet harbourage from the turmoil of city life, my dear lady. An occasional hour in your beautiful garden.' That's the ticket."

"Then get off straight away. There's a train at five a.m. from Waterloo. You can have my room at the pub. I'll give you a note to the proprietor."

"And a.s.suming I meet brother Barraclough?"

"Get him," responded Harrison Smith laconically. "Make as little fuss as possible but get him."

Mr. Bolt nodded and the piggy little eyes twinkled greedily.

"Trust me," he said. "Anything else you want?"

Harrison Smith thought for a moment.

"That chap Dirk," he said. "Could you find him for me?"