After he had had his bath and changed, he announced his intention of calling at Chester Square.
“I’m rather keen on meeting Joan Newton again, even if she has returned to her normal state of Jane Smith.”
Miss Newton was not at home, the maid told him when he called. Would he see Mr. Montague Newton, who was not only at home, but anxious for him to call, if the truth be told, for he had seen his enemy approaching.
“I shall be pleased,” murmured Manfred, and was ushered into the splendour of Mr. Newton’s drawing-room.
“Too bad about Joan,” said Mr. Newton easily. “She left for the Continent this morning.”
“Without a passport?” smiled Manfred.
A little slip on the part of Monty, but how was Manfred to know that the authorities had, only a week before, refused the renewal of her passport pending an inquiry into certain irregularities? The suggestion had been that other people than she had travelled to and from the Continent armed with this individual document.
“You don’t need a passport for Belgium,” he lied readily. “Anyway, this passport stuff’s a bit overdone. We’re not at war now.”
“All the time we’re at war,” said Manfred. “May I sit down?”
“Do. Have a cigarette?”
“Let me see the brand before I accept,” said Manfred cautiously, and the man guffawed as at a great joke.
The visitor declined the offer of the cigarette-case and took one from a box on the table.
“And is Jane making the grand tour?” he asked blandly.
“Jane’s run down and wants a rest.”
“What’s the matter with Aylesbury?”
He saw the man flinch at the mention of the women’s convict establishment, but he recovered instantly.
“It is not far enough out, and I’m told that there are all sorts of queer people living round there. No, she’s going to Brussels and then on to Aix-la-Chapelle, then probably to Spa—I don’t suppose I shall see her again for a month or two.”
“She was at Heavytree Farm in the early hours of this morning,” said Manfred, “and so were you. You were seen and recognized by a friend of mine—Mr. Raymond Poiccart. You travelled from Heavytree Farm to Oberzohn’s house in a Ford trolley.”
Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Monty Newton betray his dismay.
“That is bluff,” he said. “I didn’t leave this house last night. What happened at Heavytree Farm?”
“Miss Leicester was abducted. You are surprised, almost agitated, I notice.”
“Do you think I had anything to do with it?” asked Monty steadily.
“Yes, and the police share my view. A provisional warrant was issued for your arrest this morning. I thought you ought to know.”
Now the man drew back, his face went from red to white, and then to a deeper red again. Manfred laughed softly.
“You’ve got a guilty conscience, Newton,” he said, “and that’s halfway to being arrested. Where is Jane?”
“Gone abroad, I tell you.”
He was thrown off his balance by this all too successful bluff and had lost some of his self-possession.
“She is with Mirabelle Leicester: of that I’m sure,” said Manfred. “I’ve warned you twice, and it is not necessary to warn you a third time. I don’t know how far deep you’re in these snake murders: a jury will decide that sooner or later. But you’re dead within six hours of my learning that Miss Leicester has been badly treated. You know that is true, don’t you?”
Manfred was speaking very earnestly.
“You’re more scared of us than you are of the law, and you’re right, because we do not put our men to the hazard of a jury’s intelligence. You get the same trial from us as you get from a judge who knows all the facts. You can’t beat an English judge, Newton.”
The smile returned and he left the room. Fred, near at hand, waiting in the passage but at a respectful distance from the door, let him out with some alacrity.
Monty Newton turned his head sideways, caught a fleeting glimpse of the man he hated—hated worse than he hated Leon Gonsalez—and then called harshly for his servant.
“Come here,” he said, and Fred obeyed. “They’ll be sending round to make inquiries, and I want you to know what to tell them,” he said. “Miss Joan went away this morning to the Continent by the eight-fifteen. She’s either in Brussels or Aix-la-Chapelle. You’re not sure of the hotel, but you’ll find out. Is that clear to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fred was looking aimlessly about the room.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I was wondering where the clock is.”
“Clock?” Now Monty Newton heard it himself. The tick-tick-tick of a cheap clock, and he went livid. “Find it,” he said hoarsely, and even as he spoke his eyes fell upon the little black box that had been pushed beneath the desk, and he groped for the door with a scream of terror.
Passersby in Chester Square saw the door flung open and two men rush headlong into the street. And the little American clock, which Manfred had purchased a few days before, went on ticking out the time, and was still ticking merrily when the police experts went in and opened the box. It was Manfred’s oldest jest, and never failed.
XXII
In the Store Cellar
It was impossible that Mirabelle Leicester could fail to realize the serious danger in which she stood. Why she had incurred the enmity of Oberzohn, for what purpose this man was anxious to keep her under his eye, she could not even guess. It was a relief to wake up in the early morning, as she did, and find Joan sleeping in the same room; for though she had many reasons for mistrusting her, there was something about this
