“See that!” he exclaimed. “Posted in the SW district late last night. If madame had been at home in Paddington the postmark would have been different. Well—but the square box, Mr. Garrowell! You’ve got it, of course? Do you know that that box probably contains jewels worth—”
“The box?” ejaculated Garrowell. “Got it? Of course not! It’s gone! The boy went off to the post office with it—oh, just before you came.”
“Gad!” muttered Lord Morradale. “Well—the post office, at once, Matherfield!”
But Matherfield suddenly laughed, throwing up both hands as if with a sudden inspiration.
“No, my lord, no!” he said. “No! The box is safe enough in the post. It’s off to Mr. C. Basing, Post Office, Southampton. And when Mr. Basing calls to collect it—he’ll find me!”
There was triumphant conviction in Matherfield’s tone: there was the impulse to immediate action in the way in which he pulled out a railway guide from his pocket, and rapidly turned its pages. But Hetherwick and Lord Morradale looked at each other. And each saw that the other was dubious.
“Yes,” said Lord Morradale slowly. “Um—no doubt, Matherfield. But I say, you know—those jewels are worth no end! Safe enough, perhaps, in the hands of the postal authorities, now they are there, but—there’s many a slip, you know, and—”
“You might take the postal authorities into your confidence,” suggested Hetherwick. “These people are up to all sorts of wily tricks—”
Matherfield laughed quietly. It was the laugh of a man who knows his own business thoroughly, and is a little impatient of outside criticism.
“I know what I’m doing, gentlemen,” he answered. “Leave it to me as to what I do with the post office people. I’ve as good as got the handcuffs on Baseverie or on Ambrose—perhaps on both! This is how I figure the thing,” he went on, with a final glance at the timetable. “These two men have got Madame Listorelle and the young lady-secretary in their power, safe somewhere in London. They forced madame, last night, to write that letter to Mr. Garrowell here—we know what they made her write. Mr. Garrowell got the small box containing the jewels, and he’s sent it off, already, by express delivery, to Southampton. It will be there early this evening, and one or other of the men will be there to meet it. If Baseverie calls for it, Ambrose will be round the corner. If Ambrose calls for it, Baseverie will be close at hand. Probably they’re already in Southampton—they’d go this morning, to be on the spot. As soon as the box is in their hands they’ll be off—probably to the Continent, by Southampton and Havre. They won’t try the Atlantic—the five days’ voyage would be too risky. They’ll make for France. But they won’t get to France—they’ll find themselves in the lockup at Southampton before bedtime! You see if that doesn’t come off, gentlemen, as sure as my name’s what it is. Now, Quigman, you come with me. We’ve just nice time to catch the one-thirty, and to get in touch with the Southampton police, and lay our plans and make our arrangements. Some time tonight, gentlemen, you’ll hear from me!”
Then Matherfield hurried Quigman away, and the three men left behind looked at each other. Mr. Garrowell was obviously much concerned, and his hands, thin and nervous, trembled as he began to arrange the papers on his desk.
“This is a most distressing business, gentlemen,” he said. “It is very painful to me to think that I have been made an instrument in a crime of this sort, however innocent a one! But how could I tell that this letter was forced out of Madame Listorelle? On the face of it—”
“Oh, there’s no blame attaching to you, Mr. Garrowell!” interrupted Lord Morradale. “On the face of it, the letter’s genuine enough. But I wanted to ask you a question: How much do you know of Madame Listorelle? I mean, how often has she employed you?”
“Two or three times only,” replied Garrowell. “She came to me first about an agreement which I had had to send her on behalf of another client. She seemed very friendly, and was kind enough to say that next time she had any legal business she would remember me as she hadn’t any regular solicitor of her own. I think,” he added with a deprecating smile, “she probably saw that I was beginning, and hadn’t much to do.”
“I see,” said Lord Morradale, looking round at the somewhat humble appointments of the office. “And you’ve been to that Safe Deposit place on her behalf—how often?”
“Twice. On each occasion Madame Listorelle wrote her instructions from abroad. Once she was in Paris. The other time she was at Nice. The instructions were similar on both occasions: I was to go to the Safe Deposit, get a certain parcel or article and post it to an address given. The first time I sent a small parcel to Amsterdam—I have the exact address and name; the second, to New York. So that, of course, when I got Madame’s letter this morning, I saw nothing unusual in it.”
“Just so!” agreed Lord Morradale. “You wouldn’t. Well, I hope Matherfield will clap the irons on the men who forced her to write it! Eh, Hetherwick?”
“With all my heart!” responded Hetherwick. “But I, too, want to ask Mr. Garrowell a question. How long,” he continued, “have you been here, in St. Martin’s Lane?”
“Oh, four or five years,” replied Garrowell.
“Then you know this district pretty well, of course. Have you ever come across a man whom I’ll try to describe to you?” He went on to give an accurate, if concise, description of Baseverie. “That man,” he concluded, “is sometimes seen around here.”
Garrowell nodded.
“I know him!” he said. “In fact, he’s been in this very room—to see me. But I don’t know his name, nor anything much about him. He was brought here by another man and he only stayed a few minutes.”
“How much do you know about him—however little?” asked Hetherwick.
“This much. You know that people who have
