Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

This story began in Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction for July 16

When the dead awaken retribution is meted to every one, and there is confusion as each receives according to his deeds

Chapter XLIV For Bigger Game

Delia had the supreme thrill of her life, when, sitting with the tiller in her grasp, she steered for the beach and saw the little knot of men scurrying toward their boat with the speed of fugitives who find their retreat cut off. The zest of the hunter was in her blood.

“Pull!” she cried. “You’ve got them now — pull!”

Tommy and Maffet tugged at the oars with bursting chests and straining muscles. The long pull back from the landing stage against the wind had taken nearly ten minutes already, but they still had a spurt left in them and the boat leaped from one wave-crest to another in a cloud of spray.

For awhile Delia — neither knowing nor caring for the consequences — thought that success was sure. Then with a gasp of disappointment she saw the other boat reach the dark bulk of the ship a hundred yards ahead of her, and her eye caught a flash of foam as a propeller kicked up the water.

“They’re away!” she cried.

Pursuit was hopeless now. The motor vessel was surging ahead with gathering speed. Maffet dropped his oar and spun round on this thwart.

“Hold up there! Stop!” he roared, and as a hoot of defiance came back he whipped out a police revolver and fired twice over the launch, repeating his order, and then twice more, point-blank into her as she drew clear. Maffet a most orthodox officer and seldom a man of impulse, was bursting with breathlessness and wrath and he had forgotten his surroundings and his company.

He achieved some result. There was an outburst of shouting from the launch, three tongues of flame stabbed the dark and a bullet sang close by Maffet’s head, two more zipping into the water alongside the boat. Tommy flung himself in front of Delia.

“Quit that!” he cried, “you’ll be getting her hit! Quit it, man!”

“Never mind about me!” said Delia. “Don’t let him lose them!”

“Shooting’s no good. We’ve lost them anyway.”

They certainly had. The launch was well away. She was churning into the night at fifteen knots, headed for the sea, the dinghy towing drunkenly behind her at the end of a long line, its bow cocked high in the air. In a few minutes there was no trace of her on Loch Killin except the lather of foam left by her wake.

“Gosh!” said Tommy, mopping his forehead, “if we’d been five minutes earlier and hadn’t you with us, we might have scrapped up a naval action. That was the ship that tried to ram Rab’s trawler the night I dropped off the Ottawa.”

Inspector Maffet preserved a stony silence.

“I’m afraid it’s all my fault,” sighed Delia apologetically. “They’ve got away with Slaney, of course. Do we have to land and make sure?”

The boat grounded on the beach. A brief inspection of the tower and the rope that lay among the broken stonework told all there was to tell.

“I think he must have hurt himself a little,” said Delia. “I thought I saw them carrying somebody; they were all in a bunch.”

They retreated to the boat, and Inspector Maffet’s protracted silence became oppressive. It was like walking next to a loaded bomb. Delia eyed him sympathetically.

“If you seem to want to say anything, inspector, don’t mind me,” she suggested. Maffet shook his head sadly.

“I couldn’t do it justice, madam,” he said, much more quietly than she expected. “Let’s get back to the castle.”

Not a word was said during the homeward row. They made the boat fast to the landing stage.

“You do understand how sorry I am about this?” said Delia unhappily.

“My fault, not yours,” replied Maffet. “I should have stayed on the island and let you land. Only I wanted to keep the boat by me. It was the toughest sort of luck, those fellows shoving in just while I was taking you ashore. He had been safe there all the week. Twenty minutes later, and I could have laid for that crowd and scooped them.”

“If they didn’t scoop you,” suggested Tommy. “They were a fairly tough crowd at odds of ten to one.”

“I’d have been lying up ready for them before they landed,” said Maffet confidently. “They wouldn’t have got away with Slaney. I’m not blaming you, Miss Allister. But we’ll waste no talk on it; I want to use your telephone as quickly as possible.”

The moment they reached the castle, Maffet went to the library telephone and put through a police call, which takes precedence of all others day or night. While he was busy, Delia and Tommy, wet and rather exhausted, made for the great west room, where there was a blazing fire, just as they crowded up to it, Drumcleugh protruded an inquiring face through the doorway, apparently to see whether there was anything they wanted.

“Andy!” said Delia, “we’ve lost our prisoner. He’s made a clean break of it and got away to sea!”

Andy raised one eyebrow.

“Ay?” he said serenely. “Aweel-weel. Ye’re gey an’ wet, mem. Ye should change your claes.”

He helped her out of her spray-drenched raincoat and carried it away with him, making no further comment. Even Tommy was surprised at his serenity in the face of such news. The sequestration of Slaney had evidently been no secret to Drumcleugh.

“Tommy, say something nice to me,” pleaded Delia. “I feel so miserable.”

“Forget it!” said Tommy, drawing her on to his knee in the armchair nearest the fire. “Show me anybody with the nerve to say you’re not the most wonderful kid in the world. As for the rest of it — Maffet told you not to worry.”

“But it’s Inspector Maffet I’m worrying about. I’ve let him down dreadfully. Do you think it’s going to be very awkward for him? It all looked so good, too. But the way it finished up—”

“Nobody could help that. But, of course, after all the trouble you took to get Slaney—”

“Oh, Slaney! That doesn’t trouble me now. I didn’t really care whether he got away or not.”

“You didn’t — what?”

“Not really. Of course, one was rather galled to see them pull him out from under our noses like that, but as far as losing Slaney goes, it wouldn’t cost me half an hour’s sleep.

“You see, I lost all interest in Slaney when I found he couldn’t give away Renée or whoever is sicking him on. That’s all I wanted him for. But couldn’t you see he didn’t know? He’s just a cheap, clever little crook, who hasn’t even been allowed to know whose money he is earning.

“If you wanted to hire Slaney to do something crooked, Tommy, you’d take pretty good care not to put yourself in his power, wouldn’t you? I’m sure I should. Probably those friends of his know more about it.

“I wonder if we could have got it out of them if we’d caught them. But Slaney himself — why, we’ve got most of the facts about him, and Maffet is a witness, so it clears you of any trouble.

“It’s different for the inspector. Of course, he wanted Slaney, he hasn’t got him and it’s all through me. I should think Maffet might get into some pretty bad trouble over it, don’t you? And he was ever so nice to me about it. Maffet is a gentleman.”

Footsteps were heard approaching and Delia disentangled herself from Tommy and the armchair just in time. Inspector Maffet entered.

“I have put a warning through to the coast stations to stop that motor ship wherever she shows herself,” he said briefly. “They’ll probably get her!”

“Hope they do,” said Tommy.

“I have also told the Barmouth police that the body they have is not Chaytor, and to trace up Michael Brain of Wexford. I believe that item of Slaney’s story, at any rate will be found correct.”

“One pearl of truth from the Slaney oyster — I think so, too. And now how about some grub and a drink before we part, inspector — for I suppose you’ve got to be buzzing off on this new trail?”

Inspector Maffet shook his head.

“No. I’m going to ask you to put me up here for the night, if you’ll be so good,” he said. “I mean to stick to Dunkillin for the present.”

“My dear fellow, delighted, of course,” said Tommy warmly, though with some surprise. “Then you don’t—”

“I have a final word to say to you, and to Miss Allister, before I turn in,” interrupted Maffet.

“I am uncommonly glad, both personally and officially, Mr. McKellar, that you are cleared of this business of the alleged Chaytor’s death. When I came down here, I was afraid that was going to be a bad stumbling-block.”

“A stumbling-block. What d’you mean?”

“I call it that, because it would not only have been very unpleasant for you, but it looked like getting in my way and hindering my work. I’m thankful that we’re quit of it, and we owe that wholly to Miss Allister whom I should like to accept my congratulations, even if her methods were a bit irregular.

“I am going to leave the Barmouth inquest and the chasing of Slaney in other bands, and remain here over to-morrow. For I may tell you that what brought me to Dunkillin is something a good deal bigger than the disappearance of ‘Harbord Chaytor.’ ”

“The devil it is!” said Tommy, sitting up. “Then hadn’t you better tell us—”

“I prefer to say nothing more at present. It is a difficult and delicate case, and I am going to handle it my own way. But I accept your hospitality thankfully, and as you were good enough to mention supper I should be glad of a wash and brush up.”

Tommy attended to the needs of the inspector, and returning to the room, found Gillespie already laying supper with his usual air of grave efficiency.

“Make it a good supper, Gillespie,” said Delia, “we’ve had a pretty strenuous evening all round.”

“Indeed, madam?” said Gillespie, setting down a decanter of Burgundy. “I hope everything ended satisfactorily.”

“Not very. We lost somebody who interested us quite a lot.”

“So I understand, madam,” said the butler calmly, smoothing the tablecloth, “but if I may say so, as things are now developing it will probably make no great difference in the long run.”

Delia looked at him quickly, and catching Tommy’s eye, took his arm and led him out of the room.

“They’re all telling us the same thing, Tommy,” she murmured, “but if it’s Gillespie’s opinion I’m believing it. I’ve more confidence in him than any one in Dunkillin, Maffet not excepted.”

“So have I,” said Tommy. “I learned the habit when I was ten.”

Chapter XLV Another Woman

At eleven next morning when Tommy and Delia were in the library, Inspector Maffet came in abruptly. They had seen nothing of him since the night before. He breakfasted by himself at seven and left the castle, returning at ten and taking charge of the telephone in the steward’s room without consulting his hosts.

The moment he entered the library they guessed that something unforeseen had happened. There was a scribbling-pad in his hand, a pencil thrust behind his ear, and about his mouth an odd, rather grim expression.

“Now what?” said Tommy.

“Luck’s a queer thing,” rejoined Maffet soberly. “Disarranges plans — never know when it will get up and hit you. Tod Slaney probably thought that last night — if he’d time to think of anything. This message has just come through to me from Glasgow, in answer to mine:

Delia said nothing. Tommy looked thoughtfully at Maffet.

“Sure it’s the same?” he asked.

“What else could it be? Time and place agree. Unless we get more news, we shall never know what vessel it was, or if any one survived. These things happen at sea. Running in a gale — with no lights. She took one chance too many.”

Maffet paused.

“This motor vessel,” he said, “all you were able to tell me of her, was No. 99, Milford. If you were right, that number was faked; no such vessel is registered at Milford. And up to now, we hadn’t traced her.

“Probably her owners kept her at some Irish port, and tracing a vessel in the Irish Free State registry, to say nothing of the thousands of creeks and loughs over there — well.” He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled grimly.

“I don’t know that we paid much attention to your story of the motor vessel, Mr. McKellar. She convinced me when she turned up last night. Whether we shall get a complete history of her now, is uncertain. By this report, I think we can take it that Tod Slaney and his friends are — out and under.”

Tommy nodded.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.

“Nothing, personally,” replied Maffet. “I’ve told the Glasgow police about the vessel and who Slaney is — if there’s anything to be done they’ll do it. I can’t go off on a cold trail; my hands are too full as it is.”

He rose from his chair.

“I’m going to ask you a favor, Mr. McKellar. Will you give me a free hand, here at Dunkillin, to make any arrangements I want to?”

“Certainly. I’m afraid we’ve rather let you down, so far. Do anything you choose.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Maffet, making for the door, “I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

As soon as they were alone Tommy turned to Delia.

“Well, that’s a cold wet finish for Slaney & Co.,” he said.

“If it’s true,” said Delia quietly, “and I’ve no doubt it is — it’s the same sort of ending they intended for you. That’s all I have to say about it — except that I could wish Renée and her partner Mr. Drumont had been in their place. That would have been cold justice, Tommy.”

Tommy strode up and down the room.

“Look here,” he said. “Even if that’s so how is it going to affect Renée’s claim against me?”

“Surely it ought to knock her claim sky high.”

“But if they don’t bring it home to her? How will it help my right to the McKellar money, or my legitimacy?”

“If Inspector Maffet is as busy as he says, it ought to do something even to that.”

“Maffet is no fool. But somehow I can’t feel the confidence in him that I ought,” said Tommy. “Yes — come in! Letters? Bring ’em here!”

Gillespie entered with the mail on a tray. There was a long registered envelope, and a letter from Innes, Dalrie & Innes, the solicitors.

Tommy ripped it open eagerly, and as he scanned it his face grew dark. Delia read it over his shoulder. The news was not good and Mr. Brodie Innes had written in pessimistic mood:

Tommy’s face flamed scarlet with anger and dismay.

“Compromise?” he said savagely. “Not for me!”

“Not for either of us, Tommy. No surrender.”

“I’ll sink the dashed inheritance in Loch Killin first. We’ve got to fight it out if it takes a year. What does Innes mean by sending me a proposal like this through the mail? He’s weakening. I never did think much of Innes—”

“He does sound discouraging,” said Delia. “But he hasn’t got the latest news from Dunkillin yet.”

“We’re landed with the beastly lawsuit now, anyway. It’s cut loose, and it’s going to be a lot worse than that turn-up with Slaney & Co,” said Tommy gloomily. “It’s—”

The telephone bell rang sharply. He picked up the receiver and answered.

“It’s Innes himself,” he said. “The old bird seems all wrought up. Yes — speak up!”

The long distance call came at first confusedly over the wire, and then the line cleared:

“Mr. McKellar? You get my letter? Take no steps till you hear from me again. I have just received the most amazing communication about your case.

“What— Yes! I can’t tell you about it over the phone. I think they’ll drop the case. I’ll come to you myself to-morrow night. Do nothing till I arrive.”

The line was cut, and Tommy, perfectly dazed, repeated the disjointed message to Delia.

“What in thunder does he mean?”

“Why, that you’re winning, Tommy! Renée and her partner have got the wind up, and they’re backing out! That’s what it means — if anything at all.”

“I don’t believe that? Nothing would scare that woman. But does Innes mean anything? The old buzzard keeps contradicting himself. Yes — what is it?”

Gillespie stood in the doorway.

“A lady wishes to see you, sir,” he announced.

Tommy’s face hardened.

“Nothing doing!” he said abruptly. “Is it—”

“No, sir,” replied Gillespie calmly, “not Mrs. McKellar.”

“No? What name then?”

“She prefers to give her name to no one but yourself, sir,” replied the butler. “And if I may say, sir, I think you should see this lady without delay. It will probably prove to your advantage.”

Tommy became flustered.

“Will it, by gosh!” he exclaimed heatedly. “See here — say — Gillespie, is this your doing?”

“My doing, sir?” said Gillespie with polite surprise.

“All right — never mind — bring her up. Trot her along.”

He turned anxiously to Delia as the door closed.

“Tommy, you don’t want me to go away, do you?” she said firmly, “because I won’t!”

“Of course not! If you go, you won’t see my tail for dust! Stand by me, Delia. I would sooner handle ten Slaneys than one strange female. I suppose Renée sent her, and I don’t think Gillespie ought to spring this sort of thing on me—”

The door opened, and the visitor was ushered in. Tommy stared at her wonderingly. She did not look formidable.

On the contrary, she looked comfortable. She was large and elderly and very stout. She wore a sort of prehistoric dress of dark silk covered with little black beads and an uncompromising black hat trimmed with a curled ostrich feather. Her face was large and plain, but it had character. It was the face of a female philosopher. Her eyes were tolerant, her nose soft and amiable and rounded, but she had an uncommonly firm mouth.

Under her arm she carried an unfolded umbrella. She pointed it at Tommy.

“This Mr. Thomas McKellar?” she inquired.

Tommy bowed, and placed a chair for her hastily, choosing a solid one.

“Thank you, sir,” said the lady, seating herself with a voluminous rustle of silk. “My name’s Harding.”

Chapter XLVI According To Law

The visitor addressed herself exclusively to Tommy.

“Susan Harding,” she repeated, “and what I’ve got to say to you is private and confidential, Mr. McKellar. At least, it’s no great odds to me, but I shouldn’t think you’ll want to have it spread about.”

She turned a considering eye on Delia.

“Miss Allister — Miss Harding,” said Tommy. “Anything you have to say—”

“Tommy has no secrets from me,” said Delia, laughing. “I’m going to marry him.”

“Are you indeed, miss?” replied Susan Harding amiably. “I hope he’ll have no secrets from you when he’s your husband. Hope is cheap. Anybody that’s going to get married ought to lay in a cellarful of it. Not that I’ve anything to say against Mr. McKellar. He looks all right. They often do.”

“Are you opposed to marriage, Mrs. Harding?” asked Delia.

“No, my dear,” said Mrs. Harding. “I ain’t opposed to marriage any more than I’m opposed to the influenza; it’s no good being opposed to what you can’t stop. We’re told to take precautions, but we seem to get it just the same. All I say is that people ought not to go out of their way to spread the infection. Of course, you never know your luck.”

She turned to Tommy.

“You’re the son of Mr. John McKellar the millionaire, I understand, sir? I suppose he was fairly well known, but, not being what you might call a mover in society circles, I never heard of you nor your father till Mr. Gillespie sent for me the other day.”

“He sent for you, did he?”

“Yes. It was a Mr. Drumcleugh that came to see me first, down where I live, which is a goodish way from here. I’ve never been in Scotland before, and I can’t say I think much of it. Havin’ lived a very quiet retired life up to now, perhaps I ain’t much of a judge of foreign parts. However, I ain’t here to talk about myself, but rather about a girl by the name of Margaret Deane.”

“My mother! Do you mean to say you knew—”

“Who married Mr. Vivian Harding, away back in 1896.”

“Yes! But what—”

“It was a silly thing to do,” said the visitor philosophically. “But girls do silly things, and have to pay for ’em in time. She was very young at the time. Goodness knows, I oughtn’t to talk.

“When I fell for Vivian, I was old enough to know better. I’d had a fair amount of experience, but experience don’t always do as much for you as it ought. What I did was done with my eyes open. Only I didn’t know all the facts.

“A wife more or less was no great odds to Vivian in those days, not if he set his fancy on anybody that had a little bit of money.”

“Are you Vivian Harding’s wife?”

“Well, I’m his widow, in a manner of speaking. And what I don’t know about Vivian by this time, nobody else is likely to be able to tell me. I’m an expert on Vivian, as you might say. He was a tricky lot, but I was too many for him.”

“Mrs. Harding, this is very important to me!” said Tommy. “My lawyers and I have been trying to trace everything possible about that infernal scoundrel — that is — I mean to say—”

“Oh, I shan’t quarrel with any remarks you may make about Vivian, sir,” said Mrs. Harding, tolerantly, “you being another sufferer, so to say. We can all make mistakes when not taking precautions, and Vivian was my mistake. Mind you, I’m not blamin’ any one but myself.

“Whatever else one may say about Vivian, he was it. All his people were it. My people were fish curers down Rotherhithe way. And for a girl like me, brought up correct an’ generally having plenty of sense — to go an’ marry a gentleman — well, of course, I was asking for it. And I got it.

“In your mother’s case, sir, it must have been quite different. She was just a young lady with no experience at all, and a good deal younger than I was when I met Vivian. She wouldn’t know how to look after herself, and I can only suppose there wasn’t anybody to do it for her—”

“Look here, Mrs. Harding!” said Tommy in deep agitation, “for goodness sake tell me—”

“One moment, sir,” said Susan Harding kindly. “Let me tell this story my own way, or we shan’t get it straight. You’re worrying about your mother, and what I’m here for is to tell you it ain’t half so bad as it looks. I’ll ease your mind for you.

“I’ve not much to say about your mother, for I never set eyes on her, but it’s not so surprising she should let Vivian fool her into marrying him. Unless you was up to his ways, he was very taking. He talked beautiful — better nor I do.

“Sometimes I’d hardly know whether he was reading a bit out of the paper or just talking, words came that easy to him. If he wanted to make a girl sure he was what she’d always been lookin’ for and never expected to meet up with, Vivian had a way of doing that in quick time and leaving her to fill in the blanks afterward when she came to know him a bit better.

“Now I’ll tell you just what I know about it, an’ don’t interrupt me, for I’ll make it as short as I can.

“Vivian and me was married in London. After about a year of what they call the bliss o’ matrimony he disappeared, taking along with him a tidy bit of money that he’d been able to lay his hands on.

“It wasn’t till twelve months later I found out — never mind how — that there was a Mr. Harding up in Yorkshire, who seemed to me to answer the description. I don’t believe in actin’ on rumors, so l went to have a look for myself.

“Nobody knew anything about Vivian in Yorkshire, so he would have a pretty free hand. Nobody knew anything about me either. He’d fixed things up to marry a young lady, and. as far as I could find out, he hadn’t even changed his name.

“Of course, changing your name is just about as risky a thing as not changing it — not that Vivian ever took much account of risks when his mind was set on anything. But if he’d changed it, I might never have copped him at all. As it is, I was just too late.

“He’d made a runaway match of it — Vivian did most things on the run — at St. Dunstans, York, by special license. I got there at twelve fifteen, and made inquiries.

“The rector who’d performed the ceremony told me I was too late to be present at the happy occasion — Mr. an’ Mrs. Harding having been married all regular and correct at 11 A. M. I saw the signatures in the register. The bride’s name was Margaret Deane, spinster.”

Tommy, white with excitement and consternation, could keep silent no longer.

“Why then — you mean — look here, Mrs. Harding, do you mean to tell me—”

Delia suddenly laid a restraining hand on his wrist. She was watching the placid, capable face of Susan Harding.

“Let her finish, Tommy dear!” she said, and Tommy, with a violent effort, controlled himself. Mrs. Harding, now in the full tide of her narrative, swept on.

“You might suppose I’d have raised a riot, right on the spot,” she said. “But I couldn’t help feeling even then there must be some mistake. I’d nothing to go on but the name, and it seemed to me even Vivian couldn’t have been such a fool. Anyhow the job was done as far as the poor old rector was concerned, and I’d look a still bigger fool if I started upsetting a marriage that was no concern of mine, and maybe letting myself in for an action for slander.

“I’m one that believes in making sure, in a dangerous case. So I didn’t tell the parson who I was, and, learning that the happy pair had left for Harrogate, I hurried along there by the next train.

“Harrogate was the sort of classy place that a man with Vivian’s ideas might very likely pick out. I got there at four in the afternoon and tried three of the biggest hotels, asking for a couple by the name of Harding. At the third, the best o’ the three, I struck lucky. They’d arrived an hour ago. I asks for Mrs. Harding, and was told the poor young thing had gone out in search of comforts for the patient.”

“Comforts?”

“Yes, my dear. Arnica and lint and so on, and a hospital nurse. The doctor had only just left. What happened was this: Vivian had taken her by train to Weatherby, where he had a smart dog cart ready, and driving her along the Harrogate Road in that dashing way of his he shaved the corner by Rudding Park a bit too close and turned the cart over.

“It was before the days when automobiles became popular, or I daresay he’d have smashed himself up just as handy in one o’ them. The lady fell soft, but Vivian broke his collar bone and put his shoulder out, besides collectin’ several abrasions and contusions.

“Vivian was always a bit clumsy, and this time he was what you might call put out of action. A brewer’s van took him to Harrogate, where the doctor attended him.

“The pore young bride went out to the chemist with a list of things necessary for the patient, no doubt thinking her married life hadn’t made a specially fortunate start. She didn’t know it was more in the nature of a happy ending. Not many girls that get married have such luck as your mother did, sir.

“Having got these particulars from the lady clerk at the hotel, I got the number of Vivian’s rooms an’ went upstairs. And there was Vivian, propped up in bed and looking like something that had been caught in the machinery. His neck an’ shoulder was bandaged up, and so was his arm.

“It ain’t often Vivian was at a loss for a repartee, but all he said when he saw me was: ‘My dear Susan, is this you?’ And I says: ‘Yes, Vivian.’ And that was that.

“I had him out of that bed and into his clothes. It was a painful process, and he didn’t like it. But it was that or the police, and being such a gentleman, Vivian had a prejudice against the police.

“He scribbled half a dozen words on a bit of paper saying something unfortunate had happened to him and she had better keep quiet about it for her own sake — I didn’t suppose it would be any good, but I let him do it.

“And I led him down the stairs behind the elevator to the back street, where I got him into a cab. And in about half an hour we was both in the train for London.”

Mrs. Harding smoothed her black silk dress philosophically.

“There’s always the silver lining, if you looks for it,” she said.

Tommy was already on his feet.

“You were married — legally married to Harding — before he ever met my mother? There’s no doubt about this?”

“Well, I can’t see any.” said Susan Harding placidly. “I’m not asking you to take anything for granted.” She opened the black leather purse bag that was slung over her arm. “You can have a look at this. It’s me marriage lines. A thing I always believe in keeping handy. It looks respectable.”

She smoothed out the slip of paper. It certified her marriage to Vivian Harding, at the Deptford registrar’s office. Date, May 2, 1894.

Tommy swiftly unlocked the desk that stood against the wall, and with shaking hands produced the copy of his mother’s marriage certificate. He wanted to see it again, in black and white. The place was St. Dunstans, York, the date, June, 1896: two years later.

“Correct,” said Susan Harding calmly. “I see he’s described here as ‘Vivian Harding, Bachelor.’ That’s nothing. Vivian could describe himself as anything that happened to be convenient at the moment. I’ve given him better descriptions of himself, many a time. Yes, Mr. McKellar, there’s no doubt your mother’s marriage at York was no marriage at all — according to law. I congratulate you.”

Chapter XLVII “Female of the Species”

Even now, Tommy was scarcely able to get a full grip of this heartening revelation. It seemed to him too good to be true. Delia’s eyes were shining, and she laid an impulsive hand on Susan Harding’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Harding, do you know what this means to Tommy?” she cried. “It means his right to a name the law can’t challenge, his right to all that his father has left him — and it upsets as wicked a frame-up as the police ever had on their hands!”

“I thought it might,” said Mrs. Harding, “from what Mr. Gillespie said to me. It looks as if you’ve been up against it.”

“But how is it that this has only just come out?” said Delia. “Who got hold of Vivian Harding and obliged him to keep the story dark all this time? I want to know what became of him. How am I sure this isn’t going to bounce up again and hit Tommy?”

For the first time Susan Harding looked rather uncomfortable.

“Well, I’m no lawyer, but the way I figure it, you’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ve a little confession to make. Maybe I’d best tell you what happened to Vivian, after I’d snatched him out of Harrogate and patched him up. I told you I got him safe away to London.

“You may think it a bit weak of me,” continued Mrs. Harding. “I ought to have let things take their course and got rid of Vivian. But he was my husband, and I didn’t particularly want him lagged for bigamy. After he’d done a year or two’s hard labor, he’d still be my husband.

“Nor I didn’t see it would do the girl any good either. She’d probably find out about it for herself, and could take what steps she liked. But I never heard a word about her from that day till a week ago, and there wasn’t anything about it in the papers even.

“Maybe she took the advice in the note he’d left, and I wouldn’t Wonder if she hadn’t come to see already what a silly thing she’d done in marrying Vivian. Very likely it was a bad shock to her for a time, but you’ve always got to pay for foolishness, and having a tooth pulled out quick is better than leavin’ it there to ache and worry you. And when you’ve been extra silly you don’t want to advertise it.

“Two years in prison might have reformed Vivian, of course, or it might have just made a jailbird of him, like it does of most. If they did reform him, they wouldn’t have made as good a job of it as I did, though perhaps that ain’t saying much.

“After leaving Harrogate, me and Vivian lived a very quiet, retired life. I put it that way because, from that day on, Vivian came to see that where me and him was concerned his number was two — and often thirteen. I’d got that two years hangin’ over him, and he knew it and just settled down naturally into his place, like a cat does when you take off the tin can the kids have tied to its tail, and butters its feet and gives it a place on the hearth-rug. Yes, Vivian soon got to know who was master.

“I took particular care of him. I sold up my little fish-curin’ business at Rotherhithe, and moved over to Belgium for four years, which is the only foreign country except Scotland that I’ve ever been in. There was good openings for my business over there and I did pretty well.

“Vivian became useful for the first time in his life, him being very well educated and knowing the language. I employed him myself, and his wages were what I thought he ought to have, subject to deductions, and not too much at a time. He never tried to get away from me again but once, which was owing to his being frightened about his past sins overtakin’ him. Thought the police was coming his way, and started on a sea voyage.”

“When was that?” exclaimed Tommy.

“He slid out and booked his passage on the steamer Malabar, that sailed from Antwerp for the Dutch Indies or some such silly place. I was too many for him and I had him off the ship just before she left. That was Vivian’s last attempt at a fade-out. He got something from me that sickened him of ever tryin’ it again.

“Besides that he soon came to see what I’d saved him from, for the Malabar was lost with everybody aboard, off the French coast. Which was very unfortunate for them. But things work out curiously in this world sometimes — it was lucky for Vivian. His name was on the passenger-list. Nobody knew he hadn’t sailed.

“So Vivian Harding was posted as among the missing. It got into the newspapers, along with the other names. Later on he had a paragraph all to himself — what they call an obliquity notice, I believe. He was always fond of them long words.

“I don’t know where they got it from, but I always suspected Vivian of working it himself. He was a tricky lot. And, of course, even he had sense enough to see that being dead was the best thing that could happen to him.

“Anyway, the papers not only mentioned the death of Mr. Vivian Harding, but his place of birth, where he was educated, and the names of his relations — some of them very swell people. I should think it must have come as a great relief to them; one of them losses that you can bear up against easy enough.”

“But didn’t they know he was married to you?” said Delia.

“No, my dear, they didn’t. Vivian never went out of his way to inform them. Nor did I. I’d no use for that sort of folk, having been stung quite bad enough already. No, my marriage with Vivian wasn’t even as fashionable as his wedding with the second lady he made a fool of at York. Him and me had been hitched at a registrar’s office. It’s quiet and cheap, but it can do you in just as thoroughly as a ceremony at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, with a carpet laid across the sidewalk, and a lot of other fools throwin’ rice and confetti.

“To finish off the story, for you don’t want a family history in three volumes, Vivian was dead, and I took care that he stayed dead. He knew he was all right as long as he kept quiet.

“It made a model husband of him, so far as you could make anything at all of Vivian. I’d took him away from his friends and all his other bad habits, and I should say he owed me his life.

“Later on we thought it was safe to come back to England. We dropped the ‘Vivian,’ which I never had used, anyway; my pet name for him was Moppet, and occasionally any others that came handy. We was known as Mr. and Mrs. John Harding, which is a common name enough.

“And that lasted till he died at Stukely only three years ago, quite quiet and peaceful. His funeral cost me forty-seven pounds and ten shillings. I missed Moppet, for though no doubt he was a bad lot, I’d got used to him. The wound has healed all right. I’m always one for making the best of things.

“Still, seeing he was dead, I gave him his right name. No good comes of putting lies on a grave-stone or a register, so he was buried as Vivian Harding. They couldn’t do him any harm once they’d buried him. After which I went into retirement in London, carrying on as usual, and keeping myself to myself, as has always been my custom.

“That’s my story, Mr. McKellar. I’ve told it you because I feel you’d like to know that your mother’s marriage, which has upset you so much, was never a real marriage in any sense of the word, legal or illegal. Though, of course, if Vivian hadn’t been my husband, it would have been legal enough to hold her I suppose. Even if she never set eyes on him after leaving the church.”

She turned to Delia.

“And I’d like to say this, miss, if you or Mr. McKellar feel sore against me for rot tracking up the other lady and telling her all the facts as maybe I should have done by rights — I ask you to put yourself in my place. If you was married to a man and fond of him, however foolish it might be — would you feel bound to go out of your way to get him sent to prison for the sake of somebody you didn’t know?”

Delia was at a loss for a reply. But Tommy broke in:

“Mrs. Harding, don’t think I’m blaming you for anything you did! You’ve done me one mighty good turn anyway: it’s the greatest relief of my life to hear what you’ve told me. And you’ve made me the happiest man in Scotland.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” said Susan. “It seems to me the sort of country that could do with any happiness it gets; though I suppose there’s some that likes all this heather and rocks and water. And, of course, you’ve got the wireless. Anything else I can tell you?”

“Yes. I want to know if you’ve heard of a lady by the name of Renée McKellar. Have you come across her?”

Mrs. Harding shook her head.

“No, sir. Have I missed anything?”

“Nor of a man called Laurence Drumont?”

“Name’s new to me.”

“Then you can’t say if either of these people were likely to have known of your marriage to Vivian Harding, or the date?”

“It would surprise me very much if they did — whoever they may be. Moppet and I took a lot of trouble to cover it up, and I should think it could only have been found out more or less by accident. Nobody knew who Moppet was. It beats me now to guess how Mr. Gillespie found out about it — especially as he isn’t a policeman.”

“All right — let that go,” said Tommy. “Mrs. Harding, what you’ve told us makes just the difference of a fortune to me — and I’d like to see that you don’t lose by it.

“And in the meantime, as we’re all starving and yonder’s the gong being banged by Gillespie, come along and have lunch.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d be much more comfortable in the steward’s room,” said Susan Harding. “I can’t enjoy my food with a lot of servants fussing round. Vivian liked that sort of thing, but I’ve no use for it. I hope you will let me have my dinner along with Mr. Drumcleugh and Mr. Gillespie, for I want to have a talk with them.”

“Do you? I want to have a talk with Gillespie myself,” exclaimed Tommy, “and it can’t wait — I want it quick! Where is he?”

He left the room hurriedly, and Delia went with him, for she, too, felt that the settlement with Gillespie could no longer be delayed.

To their astonishment, he was nowhere to be found. It was the first time on record that Gillespie was not on hand when wanted. The household staff had seen nothing of him for an hour past: not only had he faded out of sight and hearing, but Drumcleugh also was missing.

Chapter XLVIII Secret Council

Even Gillespie’s absence could not depress Tommy’s triumph. As soon as they were in the morning room where lunch was laid, he ignored the food, and seizing Delia waltzed her frantically round the table, letting go all the pent up emotion with which he had been bursting for half an hour past. They were interrupted by the entrance of Janet McQuoid.

“Hae ye gone gyte, the pair o’ you?” she inquired.

“Yes. Stark, raving mad. Crazed with joy and relief and — and what not — greatest day of my life, Janet! Here, we’ll have Mrs. Susan in — she’s got to lunch here. She’s a peach!”

He rushed off in search of her. But his blandishments were wasted; Susan Harding was adamant. She refused pointblank to join the lunch party, and insisted on taking her dinner in the steward’s room, even if she took it alone. Tommy retired defeated, to find Delia at table with Janet, to whom she had already explained the Harding marriage.

“Weel, yon’s good news, Tam,” said Janet calmly, “but d’ye think ye’re out o’ the wood yet? There’s the policeman to reckon with.”

“Haven’t had time to think of anything yet. The title to the estate’s clear anyway! My foot’s on my native heath, and my name’s McKellar!”

“I’d be the less surprised if it was Renée that had been getting herself married too often. The wumman is capable of anything. What she needed was a husband wha’d gie her a good beatin’.”

“That’s the score of being a vamp,” said Tommy, “she’s too beautiful to beat.”

“I’m not for it as a general thing,” grunted Janet, “but there’s times when it’s a good auld-fashioned remedy. I thocht ye were doing it to Delia when I cam’ in and found ye rampin’ around the table.”

“The man who’d lay hands on a woman—”

“He wouldn’t go as far as that. I’d like to see him try!” interrupted Delia. “Though he certainly shook me, once. And did it properly.”

“I hae nae doubt ye deserved it.”

“Chuck it, Delia!” pleaded Tommy, growing crimson.

“Well, I did,” said Delia. “I was trying how mad I could make Tommy. To exasperate cocksure young men is every girl’s duty sometimes, and I was tired of that easy temper of his; I went the limit. He stood for it like a lamb till I said things to him that any one else would have killed me for, and at last Tommy’s Highland blood got all wrought up and he took me by the shoulders and shook me. He shook me till my teeth rattled, poor boy.”

“What did ye do?” asked Janet.

“Laughed. The more I laughed the more he shook me, and the more he shook me the more I laughed. It did us more good than two rounds of golf. But he made it up very nicely afterward, and I can always bring it up against him when I want to.”

The lunch grew cold while Tommy and Delia discussed the morning’s triumph. Janet attended steadily to her food, and presently they left her to it and went down into the hall. There they found the missing partner had returned.

Gillespie was sitting in an armchair, his head slightly bowed, staring into the fire of pine logs on the open hearth. Seeing the two coming toward him, he rose hurriedly.

His face was strangely gray and drawn, there was a blue tint about his mouth, and he swayed on his feet. Tommy darted forward and put an arm round him.

“What’s wrong, old chap!” he exclaimed anxiously.

Gillespie murmured something inaudible and sank back into the chair. Delia knelt beside him, one cool hand supporting his head, while the other quickly loosened his collar and his prim little black tie, looking at him pitifully, for at the moment his appearance was disquieting; he looked really ill. But he smiled at her faintly.

“It’s nothing, madam,” he said. “A little over tired — that’s all. Thank you so much.”

Tommy came back with a glass of brandy: they put it to his lips. In a minute or less the color returned to his face and his strength seemed to come back to him.

“Thank you,” he said, “better, sir, much better. Perhaps I’ve been rather overdoing things. Came over me suddenly. I am very sorry to have given you this trouble. You were asking for me, sir, weren’t you?”

Tommy was through. He had all he could bear.

“Uncle Paradine!” he said, “dear old fellow — we know what you’ve done for us, and you know we know. No need to keep this up now. I can’t stand any more of it!”

The old man pressed his arm and looked into his face.

“Tommy, my boy,” he said, “thank goodness there’s an end of it! We needn’t keep it up now, but it will just rest between us three till to-night — that’s all. And I have one or two things to say to you, which you may as well hear at once. And — I’m a little afraid of telling you.”

He stood up.

“We can’t talk here. Shall we go into your library?” he said.

“Not yet! Are you fit to talk about it?”

“Quite... quite! The sooner the better.”

“I’m not coming,” said Delia quickly. “You won’t want me.”

The old man caught her hand and pressed it, and a rush of moisture came into his eyes.

“Of course I want you,” he said. “My dear Delia, I want you, just as I want this lucky young fellow here. Come along.”

He walked into the library between them, one hanging to each arm.

Nearly an hour later, Tommy and Delia emerged from the library and came down the stairs together. Tommy was unusually pale and silent. He looked like a man who found it difficult to get a grip on his emotions and pull himself together. His eyes were shining.

Delia was clinging to his arm. She too was rather pale, but her face was lit with a light that Tommy had never yet seen in it; her eyes were red, and her long lashes wet.

“Let’s go where we can be alone,” said Tommy. “Out in the open, don’t you think? Out on to the heather, where we can feel the sky over us.”

“Yes,” said Delia. “Come on, dear.”

It was not to be. Fate interposed in the shape of Inspector Maffet, who came striding in through the porch with a decisive step, like a man who means business.

“Mr. McKellar!” he said. “I am lucky to find you in; I’d meant to warn you not to leave the house this morning. However, all’s well. I have some urgent news for you which you must hear at once.”

“I hardly feel equal to it just now,” said Tommy. “Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t. It’s a job that won’t stand for any delay, sir, in your own interest. Miss Allister had best hear it too.”

Tommy led the way to the library, which was now empty.

“If you’ve any news more surprising than I’ve had already to-day,” he said as they seated themselves, “it will have to be something startling.”

“That so? I’m afraid my news is going to beat yours, sir,” said Maffet. “But if you’ve anything fresh since the morning, you had better tell me before I start in.”

Tommy told him of Mrs. Harding’s visit, and the story of the Harding marriage. Maffet listened to the end, without comment.

Chapter XLIX “The Quick and the Dead”

“Mr. McKellar, I congratulate you!” Maffet said at last. “That pulls you out of a very ugly mess. It sets you right on your feet. But it isn’t by any means the end of this business, and I’m afraid there’s an uglier settlement to come, which we’ve got to face.

“Tracking Mr. John McKellar’s marriage was not my job. And Slaney is not my job either; at the most he was only a sideshow. My real business is with Mrs. Renée McKellar and Mr. Laurence Drumont. As far as I’m concerned, that’s been the chief issue, from the first.

“That’s what I came down here for three weeks ago. This has been the queerest case in all my experience, and I doubted whether we’d ever fill in the evidence against them. But now I have them set.

“I may tell you there’s been suspicion against those two even before you came over from America. But they’re coming over here this afternoon. And I want you to receive them.”

Tommy sat up.

“Here! To Dunkillin?”

“Yes, sir. I arranged it! They know nothing about me; they imagine they are coming for a final interview with you. I should like you to let them have it. If you won’t, I’ll deal with them myself.”

Tommy stood up frowning.

“I don’t like this; I’ll have nothing to do with it,” he said abruptly.

“You will remember, sir,” said Maffet, “you gave me a free hand to make what arrangements I choose. I told you the case was not an easy one. In a business as serious as this, it is up to you to give the police all the help you can, however little you like it. If for no other reason, because you owe it to the memory of your father.”

“Can’t you leave my father out of it? He is dead.”

“Yes, sir,” said Inspector Maffet quietly, “and for that I hope to bring Mrs. Renée McKellar before a jury, and to see her convicted.”

Tommy sank back into his chair, staring at Maffet dumbly.

“The evidence,” said Maffet, “has been built up, piece by piece, and it all points in this one direction. The woman has been diabolically clever. Your father’s death occurred when she was out of the country.

“I am applying for a home office order for exhumation; I am sorry to tell you this, but it is necessary, sir. What am I going to do now? It depends, for the moment, on what I get out of her when she comes here this afternoon — as she will. But she’ll not slip through my fingers, now or later.

“I should not be telling you any of this, sir, but for its concerning you so very closely, and because you have helped me already. But I’ll outline the case. Your father’s death, I suppose, gave you no cause for suspicion; everything vouched for and in order. We have a different opinion at headquarters, though the case didn’t come to our notice till seven weeks ago.

“Mr. John McKellar died in April. He was attended during his brief illness by two persons only: Dr. Ker of Inveralloch, and an old sick nurse named Gourlay. Both these persons have completely disappeared, and there is no doubt they left the country, one within a week, and the other a month after the death of your father.

“Dr. Ker signed the certificate of John McKellar’s death as due to acute pneumonia. I am confident we shall find that it was not due to pneumonia nor any other natural cause. Here again, I am not going to fill in for you all the details.

“I need only tell you there is evidence that a cumulative poison, nux vomica in the form of a concentrated essence, had been introduced into a medicine chest that your father apparently kept in his bedroom.

“There is no doubt what the final result would be, if he unwittingly took that poison in several recurring doses. And no qualified medical man could really have been ignorant of the cause of death in such a case; not even the most obscure and backward country practitioner.

“On my first visit to Dunkillin, which you will remember, occurred just before Mrs. Renée McKellar had removed her belongings, I found traces — very slight one? — of a drug that seemed to call for investigation.

“It’s my experience that the most careful and far-sighted criminal will make a stupid slip somewhere, and fail to remove a clew that can sooner or later be unraveled. Like most criminal investigation department men, I have a working knowledge of drugs, but the home office pathologist has reported fully on those traces that came into my hands.

“And since then I have succeeded in adding several links of evidence to the chain which connects Renée McKellar with your father’s death. You have followed me closely, sir, and I need not labor that point.

“As to motive, it is clear that Mrs. McKellar had discovered something which your father intended to keep from her — that he had recently deposited with his lawyers a new will under which — whatever happened — she would inherit fifty thousand pounds. And in the event of your own decease, she would come into another three millions and the Dunkillin estate. Her reward, I’m glad to say, is going to be of quite a different nature.”

Inspector Maffet sat back in his chair, with the quiet satisfaction of a chess player who has mated his adversary.

“You will understand now, sir, that when I came down here to investigate the affair of the missing Harbord Chaytor — whom we didn’t know anything about except that he was missing — I then looked on that business as a hindrance and a nuisance.

“It might have turned out very awkwardly for you, and possibly prove an obstacle that would upset my case; though it’s likely we could have pulled you out of the mess. I am glad to say that the intelligence and decision of Miss Allister cleared that obstacle right out of the way. We are now concerned only with Renée McKellar — and probably with her partner, Laurence Drumont.”

Tommy, who had listened in silence, huddled in his chair and staring down at the carpet, raised his eyes to the inspector’s.

“I see,” he said slowly. “Then you believe — you have a certainty?”

“Yes. As far as anything can be certain in police work. Don’t you see it for yourself?”

“Yes,” said Tommy. “Yes — it does look complete.”

He stood up, with a little sigh.

“I have one request to make,” he said, “that I hope you’ll agree to. There’s one person in this house, inspector, who, though he only has a subordinate job, I’ve learned to place considerable faith in. I propose to have him come here and to get his view on this before we go any farther.”

“Who is it?”

“Gillespie,” said Tommy, pressing the bell.

“Your butler? Certainly have him in if you like. He is a witness, of course.”

“Ask Gillespie to come here,” said Tommy to the footman who answered the bell. The butler appeared in due course. He had apparently recovered from the weakness that had overcome him in the hall.

“Sit down, Gillespie. We should like to have your advice on a very serious matter.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Gillespie respectfully. “I prefer to stand.”

“Put as shortly as possible.” said Tommy, “it’s this.” He gave a brief outline of the charge Maffet had detailed.

Gillespie listened without remark. His glance traveled from Tommy’s face to Delia’s, and then to the inspector’s.

“Can you throw any fresh light on this case, Gillespie?” asked Maffet, a trifle ironically.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let us have it.”

Gillespie paused.

“If what I say should give you any offense, sir,” he said, “I apologize beforehand. But I fear you will find it difficult to prove that Mr. John McKellar was murdered.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Gillespie, “I am John McKellar.”

Chapter L Money Can Kill

Gillespie sat down in the chair that Tommy had placed for him. Inspector Maffet stared at him with an impression that the butler had suddenly become insane.

“I am John Herries McKellar,” said the old man, “some time of the McKellar Foundries, and of Dunkillin. Tom McKellar here, is my son. Miss Allister, I am proud to say, will soon be my daughter-in-law.”

Maffet continued to stare at him dumbly.

“As to the exhumation of my body,” continued Mr. McKellar, as though he were apologizing for some trifle, “the coffin which is stoned up in my family vault contains nothing more than a hundred and sixty pounds of pig-iron, which is not worth the cost of recovery.

“I am very sorry, inspector, to have been the cause of so much trouble. But we must judge by results, and I think I can convince you that the arrangement has been an excellent one for everybody concerned.”

Delia was feeling uncommonly sorry for the inspector. He had risen to his feet and was glaring at Tommy, who, while remaining perfectly calm, quite shared Delia’s sympathy for the officer of the law.

“Then you’ve been deliberately trying to fool me, right along!” said Maffet.

“Not at all, inspector,” said John McKellar. “Tom didn’t know it himself till an hour ago. As I’m responsible for this trouble he has allowed me to make my own confession when I chose. In which he’s perfectly right.

“And if you find it surprising that a son should not know his father, Tom had not set eyes on me since he was ten years old. A month ago — I confess it with grief — I should not have known him if you had introduced me to him in the street.”

Inspector Maffet resumed his seat.

“It seems you have been playing a pretty dangerous game all through, sir,” he said grimly, “and if you wish to tell me—”

“Indeed I do. It’s necessary you should have the facts. My confession is not an easy one to make to a policeman — nor to any one else. But I’m not afraid of the law. I have that inestimable asset, a clear conscience. Of course, there are some who hold that a wealthy man’s conscience is apt to stand in a class by itself. However, in telling you, I won’t spare myself.

“My marriage with Renée Lisle, for some years past has been a happy one. Perhaps it never was very happy. I blame the fault on myself. I suppose there are some men — not always weaklings — who in their home life surrender themselves to the influence of a woman, for good or ill.

“As a policeman, you will probably have had experience of some of them. The result’s uncertain; it may be the very devil. Or it may be a quite excellent arrangement. I am afraid the McKellars are apt to have that weakness. If it comes to a conflict with a woman — a woman whom they love — they cannot put their foot down.

“But as I grew older, and particularly during the last two or three years, that influence and domination to which I had surrendered, became more distasteful to me, until at last it was unbearable.

“I don’t think I should ever have fought against it even then, but for one thing. I longed more and more intensely for my only son. As my life drew nearer to a close, I realized how unjust I had been to him. I wanted my child.

“At the same time I knew — for I’m not altogether a fool — that an open reconciliation would be very difficult. It would lead to conflict, and trouble, and very likely to eventual failure. I knew I was still likely to be defeated if I attempted this in defiance of Renée.

“There was another danger, still more difficult to avoid. I was not in the best of health, and I had lately made a will which left the bulk of my property to my son, with a provision for Renée. She contrived to make herself acquainted with the conditions of that will. Of course, I could have made another. But how would that have helped me?

“For I found good reasons for believing that, after my decease, she intended to try and upset my son’s claim. There was a legal difficulty in the matter of my marriage with Tom’s mother, which was not as thoroughly cleared up, a few months ago, as it is to-day.

“I had no idea, till then, that Renée knew anything about it. The more I considered it, the more I became convinced that my son was likely to come into a stormy inheritance.

“Suppose that I were to die, suddenly — unexpectedly. It was not so unlikely, at my age. Renée would have been left with a clear field. I could not tell what measures she might take, when I was out of the way. She is clever — a very clever and resourceful woman.

“There were more means than one, by which she might have succeeded. Whether she succeeded or failed, there would be endless unhappiness and scandal: a shadow thrown on my boy’s name, and on his mother’s. At the worst — his life was between Renée and a great fortune. At the best, she might have forced him to compromise, which would still have left him in her power.”

“She very nearly did that,” said Tommy. “It would have come off but for Delia.”

“And so,” continued McKellar, “having laid my plans, I decided to put this problem to the only possible test. Once out of the way, I should, of course, be considered a factor no longer to be reckoned with. Yet, if what I feared did actually come to pass, I should still be there to prevent it, and to protect my son from disaster, for I should then hold all the master cards in my hands.

“And so, I arranged official decease and burial. I can quite understand, inspector, that you would suppose such a thing very difficult to achieve.

“It was much simpler than you think, for a man with unlimited command of money, living a retired life, and with two or three allies on whose devotion and interest he could rely.

“The first of these was my old friend Dr. Ker of Inveralloch. We have been companions from boyhood, he understood my situation thoroughly, and he had a very deep sympathy for me. We saw less of each other of late years, for he was not what you would call a persona grata with my wife Renée. Her absence abroad gave me the opportunity I needed.

“I told Dr. Ker my plans quite frankly; they appealed to him, for he was a man with a humor of his own — and I persuaded him to fall in with them and help me. It was not easy, but in. dealing with men, and particularly with friends, I can generally get my own way.

“To be brief — for there are details I will omit — he attended me for a slight cold on the chest. It was quite a genuine cold. And he signed the death certificate of a man who is still, as you see, in pretty good health and able to protect his own interests and his son’s.

“Dr. Ker, though not considering that he had committed any crime that was likely to keep him awake at night — those were his words — felt that after this event he would not care to continue in practice as a medical man. But he was due for retirement and he did me this service of his free will. I was grateful, for it was not a small thing to ask.”

Chapter LI It Was a Winning Play

“To be plain, I suppose you gave him a thumping bribe, sir,” said Maffet acidly.

John McKellar looked at the speaker through narrowed eyes.

“Dr. Ker is now living abroad in a pleasanter climate where he can enjoy ease and leisure,” he said quietly. “You will never find him and could take no action if you did, for he was guilty of merely a technical and certainly not an extraditable offense, in signing that rather ambiguous warrant.

“The Medical Council would not approve — but he was a cantankerous old fellow and never a warm admirer of that distinguished body of men. My own view is that Ker did a very beneficial and in no way a blameworthy thing. It depends on the angle from which you look at it.

“The other person concerned is the sick nurse who attended me during my unfortunate illness, old Meg Gourlay. It was she who, assisted by Dr. Ker, brought Tommy into the world. I had no difficulty at all in inducing her to do exactly what I required.

“A most capable woman and an excellent nurse. Meg had lived in pensioned retirement at Inveralloch, but she still practiced when required, and another of her sources of income occasionally was the ‘laying out,’ as I believe it is called, of those who die.

“She did it very efficiently in my case; at least, she fulfilled my instructions to the letter. Meg, too, is now living in a district remote from Inveralloch, and is very comfortable and happy. I like to reflect on Meg’s happiness, but I was thinking, throughout, chiefly of my son.

“Meg hopes Tom will go and see her some day, and though it is a far cry from here, I’ve no doubt he will do so. I do not think I need trouble you with her address, inspector.

“The only persons concerned are an obscure provincial undertaker and two of his men, who were not admitted quite so far into my confidence, but who obliged me in the matter of the iron pigs and the coffin. With them it was solely a question of money, and I dare say you have noticed, Inspector Maffet, the influence that is wielded by a large sum of money — provided it is ample enough and especially if there is no risk attached for the acceptor.

“A bargain which provides a moderate independence for life in return for a few hours’ work seldom comes into the market. Of course, I made all my arrangements carefully and left nothing to chance.

“With the help of Andy Drumcleugh, on whom I can always rely and who entered into these plans of mine with exactly that grim efficiency which I required from him, the arrangements were carried out without the smallest hitch, and the interment occurred in due course, leaving not a trace of suspicion behind.

“Andy has been a tower of strength throughout, and his only comment was that it was a pity I had not done it long ago. He evidently hoped that my resurrection would be the first step to a better life.

“I don’t suppose he altogether approved of the method, and he also complained of the expense. But relatively my expenditure was not large, considering there were three millions at stake. It was less costly and more rapid, in any case, than a lawsuit. And more certain.

“I had already left Dunkillin before the burial, and when that ceremony took place I was in London. There, having collected all the factors that I needed, I waited on events, receiving information of all that was going on. My son arrived in England, and it soon became clear that I’d been right in expecting trouble. But there was complications which, I confess, I had not dreamed of.

“The only safe place for me, the one place where I could handle the situation, was Dunkillin. And so, according to arrangement, Andy installed me as the butler Gillespie. I took a chance, there, of course. If my son recognized me, I’d have to own up and take him into my confidence.

“That would mean exploding the mine immediately — sooner than was desirable. I wanted the opposition firm to carry on till I had them nailed down tight. It’s the same in your own profession, inspector. You don’t make an arrest till you’ve a sure case. But all went very well. Tom didn’t know me.

“Any elaborate disguise, of course, would have been foolish; but white hair clipped and dyed iron-gray, with darkened eyebrows, were as far as I cared to go, and lifted a few years off my shoulders.

“I didn’t, as Miss Allister would say, entirely get away with it. Events moved so quickly that it was impossible not to arouse suspicion that I was something more than a butler. And the family likeness was perhaps suggestive. It never entered Tom’s head — how should it? — that I could be his late father.

“But he did make a mistake and place me as my brother Paradine, to whom, I am ashamed to say, Tom owes more than he ever has owed to me. Paradine and I both have the McKellar face, and doubtless the McKellar character. We were so alike in many ways that, perhaps for that very reason, I fear we never got on very well together.

“I think, inspector, that is all I need tell you; the rest must be obvious. You don’t want an account of everything I’ve done since I have been at Dunkillin. I have given a fairly full explanation because it is due to you. But there is no law that I know, which forbids a man to allow his empty coffin to be interred in the family vault — if he thinks fit to do so and has no dishonest motive.”

Maffet had long recovered from his stupefaction and his resentment. As he listened to the tale, he eyed the old man searchingly.

“In all my experience, Mr. McKellar,” he said, “I never heard such an amazing admission as this. But do you really imagine that you were justified in doing what you’ve done?”

“Surely,” said McKellar, “my justification is clear. If I were now lying in my coffin, instead of sitting before you in the flesh — my son would have been cheated of his inheritance, and his mother’s name dishonored.”

“I don’t see my way to deny that,” said Maffet slowly. “And it seems he might have lost not his inheritance, sir, but his life.”

“Yes,” replied John McKellar. “But that, you probably know more about than I do, inspector. I don’t see my way through it. It does look to me as if there were two direct attempts to meddle with Tom — and in both cases his adversary got very much the worst of it.

“You may think it strange, but I never took that so seriously as I did the other thing. I would like you to tell me something, inspector. Have you evidence in your hands which will bring that home — to my wife?”

Maffet did not answer. He looked hard at McKellar. It was exactly that evidence which he had not got.

“Whose ever work it was, it’s a bit of luck for them now that it didn’t come off,” growled Inspector Maffet. “They would be up against it worse than they are already.”

The squeal of a car’s brake was heard below. Tommy stepped quickly to the window and looked down. His father joined him.

“That appointment of yours, Maffet,” said Tommy, “is kept punctually. Here they are.”

An open four-seater was standing on the gravel, Laurence Drumont sat at the wheel. Renée McKellar stepped down and entered the porch.

“It’s my wife,” said John McKellar, leaving the window. “You have an appointment with her, inspector? Very well. As everybody concerned is present here, we cannot do better than receive her now.”

“I’m with you there, sir,” said Maffet grimly. “Do you wish to be present?”

“Yes,” said John McKellar. “After all, she is my wife. There is no getting away from that.”

“Quite so. And I think you’ve said everything there is to say.”

Chapter LII The End of Her Reign

“There is just one thing more, inspector. You have come to a certain conclusion; a perfectly natural conclusion, on strong circumstantial evidence; a case that I admit seems very well supported. But circumstantial evidence often breaks down when put to the test.

“I use the drug nux vomica myself; a fad of mine, possibly a dangerous medicine, but not in the small doses to which I am accustomed. I know few people use it nowadays, but I find it excellent for nervous headaches.

“And I have frequently got Renée to procure it for me. Whatever else my wife has done, I do not think she has ever attempted to poison me. And if she had, she certainly would not have succeeded. I am going to be reasonably fair to her. She has enough to answer for without that.”

Maffet rose from his chair. Before he could answer, the young footman appeared.

“Mrs. McKellar, sir,” he said to Tommy.

John McKellar looked at his son.

“Show Mrs. McKellar in here,” said the old man, and the footman withdrew. A minute later Renée McKellar walked into the library. The door closed behind her.

Renée, always admirably dressed, was now in half mourning, which suited her soft yet vivid type of beauty still better than the deep black which she had worn when she left Dunkillin. And even Delia could not help envying the quiet self-possession with which she faced the three men who had risen to their feet to receive her.

She looked first at Tommy, with just the trace of a bow. To Maffet she gave scarcely a glance. Then her eyes turned inquiringly upon the unobtrusive figure of the butler, standing by the table; intensely respectable in his sober dress clothes and little black tie.

Renée looked at him, and slowly, very slowly, the color faded from her face till it was chalky white. But she did not move, nor speak; a little sigh escaped her lips, and that was all. She remained perfectly motionless, facing her husband, looking him in the eyes.

Tommy, watching her, felt, at that moment a tinge of pity for Renée, and perhaps a touch of admiration. Whatever qualities Renée McKellar might lack, she certainly had courage.

Mr. McKellar broke the silence.

“You were suspected of having made away with me, Renée,” he said mildly. “Inspector Maffet — the gentleman on your left — had what seemed to be a very strong case against you, and I am glad to declare your innocence. I am rather trying to live with, but I feel sure you would not go so far as that. It would have been so dangerous, and so obvious.”

Renée stared at him, speechless.

“But considering how short the time of your bereavement has been,” continued Mr. McKellar gently, “I may say that I think you have left off your full, mourning rather early. Was that your idea, or Laurence Drumont’s?”

Renée McKellar found her tongue. And her voice, at the outset, was amazingly calm and steady:

“You were always very ingenious, John,” she said slowly. “How you’ve arranged all this, I don’t know. I only see that — you have laid a very clever trap for me.”

“A trap? For you?”

“Yes, and a vindictive, and foolish one. You thought I might marry Laurence, and then — and then you could expose and disgrace me, if you chose! Do you see how foolish it was? For I never had any such intention — the idea never entered my head!”

“I am glad to hear that, for it never entered my head either,” said John McKellar. “At least, it never entered it very far. I should not have permitted such a thing, Renée; I should have taken most effective steps.

“The moment Laurence attempted to marry you — supposing it entered his head — you would have had my protection at once. Or rather, the protection of the authorities. I think you understand me.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the conversation paused. Mr. Laurence Drumont protruded a sleek and well-groomed head into the room. He was anxious and even eager to join the party, but in spite of the invitation he had received and his natural assurance, he seemed a little doubtful. His eye lit upon Tommy and he paused.

“Come in, Mr. Drumont,” said Tommy, “we were expecting you.”

Encouraged by Tommy’s tone, which was not at all hostile, Mr. Drumont stepped inside, recovering a good deal of the confident swagger habitual to him. It declined a little as his glance rested on Inspector Maffet, and he paused again. But when he turned his eyes upon the impassive countenance of John McKellar, Mr. Drumont stopped with a jerk, as though some invisible hand had seized him.

His neck elongated and he took a half step forward, still staring. His mouth gaped wide open, his face turned a sickly green, and his eyes bulged like the eyes of a rabbit. For one silent moment that seemed to the others like an eternity, Mr. Drumont continued to drink in John McKellar Then he made a sudden plunge through the open doorway and was gone.

Maffet started up, but McKellar interposed.

“No, no!” he said. “It’s of no importance, inspector. He is really not worth while. This is one of those simple problems that settle themselves.”

There was a noise on the staircase as of a sack of coal descending, and a sort of scurry in the porch. Tommy, standing by the window, saw Mr. Drumont leap into the car — Renée’s car — and getting it going in record time, swung round for the exit.

In motion picture plays Tommy had often seen motor cars dashing about and making rings at incredible and unnatural speeds. He had never expected to witness anything of the kind in everyday life.

But this came very near it. The car flung itself in a curve like a capital S into the main drive, whizzed through the park gates, and, shooting on to the southward road over the moor, disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Mr. McKellar smiled.

“Six years ago.” he explained, “at Renée’s request, I gave her cousin Laurence Drumont a berth in McKellars, Limited. He embezzled two thousand pounds, but was allowed to leave the country unprosecuted on condition that he never returned. He has broken that condition, and no doubt he thinks it very inconsiderate of me to return from the grave in this tactless fashion. I do not think we shall hear any more of him.”

He turned to Renée.

“If you feel a little aggrieved, Renée,” he said mildly, “you will hardly see your way to reproach me in view of the uncomfortable position — now happily cleared up — in which you have placed Tommy. Fortunately he loses nothing, and he becomes incontestably McKellar of Dunkillin. The withdrawal of that lawsuit of yours, which once looked so promising, saves you expense and worry, besides the humiliation of defeat.

“You know my rule. Family scandals ought to be prevented or avoided; one gains nothing but humiliation by ventilating them publicly. So I am not going to reproach you. What I do require is your silence. Your absolute silence. I can now enforce it — a thing I’ve never been able to do before. In return I shall keep silence, and keep faith with you.”

He glanced at Tommy.

“My dear boy, will you go out and leave us together now?” he said. “You and Delia — and the inspector?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Tommy, and opened the door. Delia passed out. Maffet lingered for a moment, hesitating. Then he followed the others. John McKellar was left alone with his wife.

He placed a chair for her, and Renée, who was breathing rather hard, seated herself not ungracefully. Mr. McKellar remained standing.

“I have a piece of good news for you. Renée,” he said quietly. “It’s exclusive to yourself — I have not told Tom. A little while ago I learned from the doctors that I cannot live for more than a year, if so long. I don’t regret this at all.

“As far as the medical prophets can assure me, I am not likely to suffer much. My end, I hope, will be a peaceful one. I shall know, at any rate, a period of happiness with my son — and his perfectly charming young wife.

“In a year or less, then, you will be entirely free. I require only that you go into retirement and live quietly and decorously — as to which I shall inform myself. Meanwhile you will enjoy the legacy that has come to you under my will — a little prematurely. You will have also the satisfaction that your period of mourning will be already over by the time you actually acquire your freedom.

“You have nothing to fear, Renée. I think you will allow that I’m not being vindictive — a quality for which I have an intense dislike, especially toward a woman. I do not forget that you have been my wife for fifteen years.

“Within another year you will be my widow. You have only to keep silence on everything that’s passed. So long as you do that you’ll be perfectly safe — just as safe as if I were lying in the Dunkillin vault. Where, officially, I intend to remain.

“Any other course will be very troublesome to me and my son, but completely disastrous to you. That’s what enables me to rely on your absolute discretion for the time that remains to me.”

Renée, very white, stared up at him.

“John!” she said, “you don’t — you can’t mean this?”

“Of course I mean it.”

“I don’t understand it. Can’t you see — it’s impossible?”

“On the contrary, it is quite simple. There may be one slight difficulty, but I am confident I shall overcome it. And now we are at the parting of the ways, Renée; you will find Drumcleugh below. Tell him you are to have the car and chauffeur from the garage: they will take you wherever you wish to go.”

He moved to the inner door of the library, which gave upon the landing to the side staircase, and stood waiting.

For a few moments Renée sat where she was. Then she rose and walked across to him. Her eyes dwelled on his face for awhile appealingly, as if she would still find in him the signs of that influence under which he had lived so long.

But John McKellar seemed to have merged again into Gillespie, the butler. He looked at her steadily, and very quietly, very respectfully, opened the door for her. Renée passed out.

Chapter LIII An Old Man’s Happiness

“There’s only one thing certain, sir.” said Inspector Maffet. “You’re in such a mess that the devil himself couldn’t get you out of it. Mrs. McKellar has gone?”

“Yes,” said McKellar. “I expect you saw her go, didn’t you?”

“That doesn’t trouble me,” replied Maffet. “I can find her at any time I want to.”

“Of course you can. The way you have handled this case already shows me that. You have been right about the two principal parties from the start; you tracked them up, you caught them out at the correct time, and I must say the way you brought them both here was masterly,” said McKellar warmly.

“Still — we can all make mistakes, and this poisoning charge, sound as it looked, has rather fallen through, hasn’t it? Here am I, alive and pretty well — and happier than I’ve been for a long time past.

“Then there’s my son. He is also alive, in flourishing health — and particularly happy. He seems to have enjoyed himself uncommonly at Dunkillin; and when it comes to direct action Tom is what we Scots call an ill lad to fratch with. I’m glad, on the whole, that he didn’t succeed in shooting that little ruffian who broke into his bedroom and broke my head.

“One is allowed to shoot a burglar, I believe, though naturally it leads to all sorts of awkward inquiries and troublesome justifications. But that affair is still a little mysterious, inspector.

“One goes by evidence, and as you have no evidence which definitely connects it with Mrs. McKellar, can you do any good by arresting her? The whole scheme throughout is a record of failure.

“There is, of course, the unidentified body at Barmouth, carrying Mr. Harbord Chaytor’s papers. Apparently a sailor who met with some accident at sea; one of a shady crew the rest of whom seem to have disappeared completely. But I suppose his identity is a matter for the coroner at Barmouth, who will probably now discover his origin and whether he really came from Wexford or not.

“I am not deeply interested in that. Finally there is John McKellar, officially dead four months, and him I place unreservedly in your hands, inspector. Though the statement might surprise a purist, my conscience is quite easy, and I don’t think I have broken the law. But if you would like to arrest me, I am ready.”

“Arrest? I can’t arrest you!” said Maffet. “But—”

He broke off, and subsided for a few moments into a grim, reflective silence. Everything that McKellar said, Maffet had already told himself. He was a hard-working officer of average ability, and he was up against the most amazing case he had ever dealt with. He had every thread of it now at his fingers’ ends, and yet was more helpless now — so far as making an arrest was concerned — than when he started.

“The sad fact remains, inspector,” said Mr. McKellar, “that you really have no actual crime to report at all.”

“Yes, sir,” said Maffet. “In a sense that’s so. But — it’s very embarrassing for me, and still more so for you. It’s going to play the devil with all of us. It beats me what the yard will have to say, when I report that you are alive.”

McKellar smiled.

“It seems rather a pity to entertain them with a story that is really none of their business,” he suggested.

The inspector stared at him.

“You have a distinguished record up to now, I believe — and a long one,” said Mr. McKellar gently. “Have you never thought how pleasant it would be to retire? To a nice little farm, shall we say, on the south coast.”

Maffet flushed scarlet to the ears. He turned squarely to McKellar, bristling like an angry dog.

“Do you suppose, sir,” he said icily, “that you can—”

“With the interest on a capitalized sum of, say, twenty-five thousand pounds,” continued Mr. McKellar soothingly, “to make the remainder of your days comfortable and happy? I like making people happy, having till recently known so little happiness myself. Listen to me for a moment more.

“I am more than satisfied with my name of Gillespie and my present status, and I wish to continue it — not as Gillespie the butler, but as John Gillespie, the trusted friend and confidant of my boy and his wife. Between ourselves — my son is not to know this — it won’t be for long; my life is not a good one.

“We are going abroad, together all three of us. That’s already been settled. We have all had enough of Dunkillin — for the present. I don’t mind if I don’t see the place again; its associations are not of the happiest for me.

“But the young couple are very attached to Dunkillin, and they will return to it when they are no longer encumbered with Mr. Gillespie.”

The flush faded from Maffet’s face as he listened. The resentment died out of his eyes. He looked at the old man pityingly.

There was a long silence.

“You’re going abroad, sir?” he said at last.

“Yes. John Gillespie is going abroad. Scotland will see no more of him. Now, how about it, inspector? If I didn’t know you to be an honest man I should not make this offer. I am only asking you to respect a personal confidence which I made to you of my own free will. To break it will benefit nobody.

“But as personal confidences are unusual between a citizen and a policeman, I suggest that after you have made the necessary report — which your experience and intelligence will suggest — upon events at Dunkillin, and avoiding any mention of the survival of John McKellar, you resign your post at Scotland Yard and accept this acknowledgment of your discretion.

“For twenty-five thousand pounds, Mr. Maffet, will not only keep you and your wife and family, if you have any, in comfort, but you will vastly relieve an old man who has never known very much peace, and who would like to enjoy, undisturbed, any happiness that may be coming to him.”

There are policemen who sell their coats, but Inspector Maffet was not one of the breed. In this case, however, he would be wronging no one. He was not shielding an offender against the law. Here was an offer to take or leave. Maffet, now cool-headed and master of himself again, reflected rapidly. There was not much difficulty; what little danger there was he was prepared to face. And — twenty-five thousand pounds? He looked thoughtfully at the man who had known so little happiness.

“It can be done,” he said.

“And you will do it?”

“I’ll do it,” said Maffet. “And — thank you, sir.”

He took the hand that was held out to him. John McKellar smiled.

“We rich men are very unscrupulous, are we not, inspector?” he said wistfully.

The sun was setting in amber and purple glory behind Ben Buie, glowing over the mauve floors of heather that stretched to Dunkillin gates. John McKellar lay comfortably in the deep armchair before the windows over the porch, drinking in the scene. Tommy sat on one arm of the chair, Delia on the other. Her arm was round the old man’s neck; he was beaming gently.

“Dad, dear,” said Delia, “you’re the most wonderful man in Scotland. Nobody else could have done it.”

“Not one,” said Tommy happily. “Dad has them all shinned.”

Mr. McKellar beamed again, as Delia stroked his cheek.

“You put me too high in the class, Delia,” he said. “I don’t know what Tommy would have done without you. But he’s done just what I wanted him to, anyway.”

“I put Tommy at the head of the class of cherubs,” said Delia. “Tommy did nobly all through. When he sheds his wings and flies off the handle, he’s magnificent in a scrap. Of course he’s young yet; he hasn’t your finesse.”

“He’s better without it,” said John McKellar. “Finesse is not a good thing in a husband. I want you two to get married at once. I shan’t be really happy till you are. Listen. Tuesday? United Free Church, Glasgow? By special license.”

“And then, dad, where do you want us all to go?”

McKellar laughed and closed his eyes.

“Much I care where we go — if I can be with you.”

“Don’t imagine you’re going to get away from us. Listen!” said Delia. “America?”

McKellar’s eyes opened again.

“Always wanted to go to America! Never had the chance yet. New York, Delia? You’ll show me round, will you?”

“Will I! I’ll be your gillie on Manhattan Moor, dad. We’ll give you the time of your life. I think I’ll take Neil Tull along too. We’ll be back to Dunkillin and the heather when the spring breaks.”

She bent down and kissed his forehead.

“Well,” said John McKellar, “it’s been a pretty full day, and I think I’ll go to bed. You bairns will have something to say to each other.”

The dusk had fallen, a silver moon hung high over the loch, and the armchair now held only two.

“Tommy, he’s just the dearest old man living,” said Delia. “My eyes go wet when I look at him. I’d never have let that woman get away. Still, of course — she was his wife. And the McKellars are like that.”

“Needn’t dwell on it now. All finished,” said Tommy.

“I’m not. I’m thinking of poor dear Maffet’s face when dad sprung it on him, ‘I am John McKellar!’ ” Delia laughed, and wiped her eyes. Then she became intensely grave.

“Tommy.”

“Yes, darling?”

“I want you to promise me something.”

He slid his arm a little farther round Delia’s waist and took a careful look at her. There was a warning gleam in Delia’s blue eye that he had seen before.

“What is it?” he said warily.

She laid her head on his shoulder.

“It’s about my children.”

“Eh!”

“When you get married the second time,” said Delia, shaking gently all over, “to a fascinating peroxide vampire — you won’t let her ill treat the dear little things, will you? Tommy, don’t shake me like that, you’re making me giddy! Oh, Tommy!”