with him. It’s true. I know her.”
The smile passed away from John’s face.
“By George!” he said. “It certainly begins to hang together.”
“I know I’m right.”
“I think you are.”
He sat meditating for a moment.
“Well?” he said at last.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what are we to do? Do we go on with this?”
“Go on with it? I don’t understand.”
“I mean—well, it has become rather a family matter, you see. Do you feel as—warlike against Mr. Scobell as you did against an unknown lessee?”
Betty’s eyes sparkled.
“I don’t think I should feel any different if—if it was you,” she said. “I’ve been spending days and days in those houses, John dear, and I’ve seen such utter squalor and misery, where there needn’t be any at all if only the owner would do his duty, and—and—”
She stopped. Her eyes were misty.
“Thumbs down, in fact,” said John, nodding. “I’m with you.”
As he spoke, two men came down the broad staircase into the grill-room. Betty’s back was towards them, but John saw them, and stared.
“What are you looking at?” asked Betty.
“Will you count ten before looking round?”
“What is it?”
“Your stepfather has just come in.”
“What!”
“He’s sitting at the other side of the room, directly behind you. Count ten!”
But Betty had twisted round in her chair.
“Where? Where?”
“Just where you’re looking. Don’t let him see you.”
“I don’t— Oh!”
“Got him?”
He leaned back in his chair.
“The plot thickens, eh?” he said. “What is Mr. Scobell doing in New York, I wonder, if he has not come to keep an eye on his interests?”
Betty had whipped round again. Her face was white with excitement.
“It’s true,” she whispered. “I was right. Do you see who that is with him? The man?”
“Do you know him? He’s a stranger to me.”
“It’s Mr. Parker,” said Betty.
John drew in his breath sharply.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
John laughed quietly. He thought for a moment, then beckoned to the hovering waiter.
“What are you going to do?” asked Betty.
“Bring me a small lemon,” said John.
“Lemon squash, sir?”
“Not a lemon squash. A plain lemon. The fruit of that name. The common or garden citron, which is sharp to the taste and not pleasant to have handed to one. Also a piece of note paper, a little tissue paper, and an envelope.
“What are you going to do?” asked Betty again.
John beamed.
“Did you ever read the Sherlock Holmes story entitled ‘The Five Orange Pips’? Well, when a man in that story received a mysterious envelope containing five orange pips, it was a sign that he was due to get his. It was all over, as far as he was concerned, except ‘phoning for the undertaker. I propose to treat Mr. Scobell better than that. He shall have a whole lemon.”
The waiter returned. John wrapped up the lemon carefully, wrote on the note paper the words, “To B. Scobell,
