sham and a fraud for the past ten years. The gentle crook either drifts gently into a fortune or into jail—and you’ve made no fortune, and never will.”
Stephen Narth faced him squarely.
“What’s the idea of all this stuff?” he demanded.
The Major was fingering his little moustache thoughtfully.
“I’m only warning you, that’s all,” he said, “that there comes a point to every grafter when he’s got to try something else, even if he only tries it once. Do you mind me speaking plainly?”
“You’re not exactly wrapping up your words now,” said Narth sarcastically. “You’ve called me a grafter and a crook! If you’ve anything plainer, let’s have it!”
The Major pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the writing-table and sat down, folding his arms on the table.
“St Clay’s going to try you out,” he said, “and if you play up to him there’s a million in it!”
Narth looked at him straightly.
“A million pounds is an easy phrase, but a lot of money,” he said.
“More than a million,” said Spedwell decisively. “This is the biggest thing you’ve ever been in, my friend.”
Narth was irritated. A million—even a nebulous million—was a terrific sum, but was he not the heir to Joe Bray’s fortune?
“I don’t know that I’m so anxious,” he said. “Joe Bray was not exactly a pauper.”
For a second a little smile played on the saturnine face of the other.
“How much do you think you’re going to get out of that estate?” he asked, and then, hastily: “Well, maybe you’ll get a packet—but you’ll make more out of St Clay if you play your cards right.”
He left Stephen Narth a little uneasy, more than a little bewildered. For the first time since he had received the news of Joe Bray he began to wonder whether he was justified in his jubilation. Yet Joe had been a rich man, the owner of important concessions, a financier of governments, if all that the City said was true—the old fellow must have been enormously rich. It was a pleasant thought.
At a quarter to one Grahame St Clay arrived, a perfectly groomed man about town in his grey morning suit and shining silk hat. Narth had time now to take a closer observation of him. He was just a little overdressed, the diamond pin in his cravat just a little too large. He affected a heavy perfume, and when he took out his silk handkerchief the office became unbearable to a man who was used to a more wholesome atmosphere.
“You got my letter?” It was the tone of an employer speaking to a servant.
Mr Narth writhed. There was something patently offensive in the man’s attitude. He glanced at the desk where Narth was sitting, coolly read the letter that he had been writing, and without invitation pulled up a chair and sat down.
“That girl is coming, is she?”
“Miss Bray is lunching with us, yes,” said Narth, a little stiffly, and something in his voice must have warned St Clay, for he laughed.
“My dear man, you are suspicious of me! Come, come, this will never do! So early in our acquaintance too! You see, Narth, in my own country I am quite an important person, and I have acquired the habits of the overlord! You must make allowances.”
There was a knock at the door. Perkins, the clerk, came in and looked mutely at Stephen.
“Who is it—Miss Bray?”
“Yes, sir,” said Perkins. “Shall I tell her to wait–”
“Ask her to come in.”
For the first time in his life it struck Stephen Narth that Joan was a very pretty girl. Certainly she had never looked quite so lovely as she did that morning, a slim figure in a blue tailor-made suit and a little red hat that seemed as if it must have been specially designed to emphasize the milk and rose of her complexion and give to her blue eyes a new depth.
The effect she produced on the Chinaman was remarkable. He stood with his lips apart, staring at her until he saw the red come to her face. Then:
“This is Mr St Clay,” said Narth.
Her hand was out to take the big paw extended, when the door leading to the office was flung open and a young man came in. He was a very well-dressed young man; that was the first impression Joan Bray had of the newcomer—a peculiarly feminine instinct that Sackville Street had made his clothes. He was young, but he was not a boy; there was a touch of grey at his temples, tiny lines about his eyes. In the folds of a toga he would have been a tribune of old Rome, with his handsome eagle face and his imperious mien.
He stood in the doorway looking from St Clay to Narth—not once did he look at the girl. For a moment Narth was dumbfounded at this unexpected irruption upon his privacy.
“What do you want?” he asked. “You’ve made a mistake, haven’t you? This is a private office–-“
“No mistake at all,” said the stranger, and, hearing his voice, the girl turned and looked at him in amazement. “All the mistakes are on your side, Narth, and you never made a bigger mistake than when you had the audacity to ask my future wife to sit at the same table as this damned murdering Chink! Fing-Su!”
Mr St Clay, BA, covered his hands mechanically.
“Excellency!” he said in the Mandarin tongue.
Joan uttered a gasp of amazement. The best-looking man in China had not exaggerated his attraction—for the stranger in the doorway was Clifford Lynne!
CHAPTER TEN
Fing-Su’s embarrassment was only of the shortest duration. The folded arms came apart, the shrinking figure gained a new and sudden poise, and Grahame St Clay was his European self again. Into the dark eyes came a malignant fire which made him of a sudden a figure of terror. Only for the fraction of a second did the beast in him raise his head. The light died; he was his old pedantic self.
“This intrusion is perfectly unwarrantable,” he said in a^ queer, staccato tone which in any other circumstances would have been ludicrous.
Clifford Lynne’s eyes were on the white table with its silver, glass and flowers, and then they slowly strayed to the girl, and he smiled. And this strange man had the most beautiful smile the girl had ever seen.
“If you can endure me through a meal,” he said, “I should like to be your host.”
Joan nodded.
She was frightened in a breathless, pleasant way, but immensely interested. She would not have been human had she been otherwise. These two men were enemies, bitter and remorseless, and now she understood, as clearly as though the story had been told to her, the significance of the snake which had wriggled from the box in the drawing-room at Sunningdale. St Clay had sent it. This suave Chinaman whom Clifford Lynne had called Fing-Su! And as this realization came to her, she turned pale, and moved unconsciously nearer to the intruder.
“Mr Narth!”
Fing-Su was speaking with difficulty. The rage in him was boiling up through the veneer which the university had given him, and his voice was tremulous, almost tearful.
“You have invited me—to lunch with this lady. You are not to allow this–-” Here he choked.
Stephen Narth felt it was a moment when he might at least attempt to assert his personality.
“Joan, you will stay here,” he commanded.
That was easy enough to say. What tone he must adopt to the man in the doorway was another and more difficult matter. If the odd-looking apparition of Sunningdale had been difficult to deal with, this cool and debonair man-about-town was much more of a problem.
“Um—Mr Lynne–-” he began, mildly enough. “This is extremely awkward. I have asked Joan to lunch with our friend–-“
“Your friend,” said Lynne quickly, “not mine! It might occur to you, Narth, that I should wish to be consulted before you issue invitations to my future wife, and ask her to lunch with a man who regards assassination as a remedy for most difficulties that come his way!”
He beckoned Joan to him with a slight jerk of his head, and meekly she went to him. Mr Narth had not even the courage to be angry.
Lynne stood aside for a moment to let the girl pass into the outer office, then he turned.
