Mr. Noah Stedland had left the Courts of Justice that afternoon with no particular sense of satisfaction save that he was leaving it by the public entrance. He was not a man who was easily scared, but he was sensitive to impressions; and it seemed to him that the Judge’s carefully chosen words had implied, less in their substance than in their tone, a veiled rebuke to himself. Beyond registering this fact, his sensitiveness did not go. He was a man of comfortable fortune, and that fortune had been got together in scraps—sometimes the scraps were unusually large—by the exercise of qualities which were not handicapped by such imponderable factors as conscience or remorse. Life to this tall, broad-shouldered, grey-faced man was a game, and Jeffrey Storr, against whom he harboured no resentment, was a loser.
He could think dispassionately of Storr in his convict clothes, wearing out the years of agony in a convict prison, and at the mental picture could experience no other emotion than that of the successful gambler who can watch his rival’s ruin with equanimity.
He let himself into his narrow-fronted house, closed and double-locked the door behind him, and went up the shabbily carpeted stairs to his study. The ghosts of the lives he had wrecked should have crowded the room; but Mr. Stedland did not believe in ghosts. He rubbed his finger along a mahogany table and noted that it was dusty, and the ghost of a well-paid charlady took shape from that moment.
As he sprawled back in his chair, a big cigar between his gold-spotted teeth, he tried to analyse the queer sensation he had experienced in court. It was not the Judge, it was not the attitude of the defending counsel, it was not even the possibility that the world might censure him, which was responsible for his mental perturbation. It was certainly not the prisoner and his possible fate, or the white-faced wife. And yet there had been a something or a somebody which had set him glancing uneasily over his shoulder.
He sat smoking for half an hour, and then a bell clanged and he went down the stairs and opened the front door. The man who was waiting with an apologetic smile on his face, a jackal of his, was butler and tout and general errand-boy to the hard-faced man.
“Come in, Jope,” he said, closing the door behind the visitor. “Go down to the cellar and get me a bottle of whisky?”
“How was my evidence, guv’nor?” asked the sycophant, smirking expectantly.
“Rotten,” growled Stedland. “What did you mean by saying you heard me call for help?”
“Well, guv’nor, I thought I’d make it a little worse for him,” said Jope humbly.
“Help!” sneered Mr. Stedland. “Do you think I’d call on a guy like you for help? A damned lot of use you would be in a rough house! Get that whisky!”
When the man came up with a bottle and a syphon, Mr. Stedland was gazing moodily out of the window which looked upon a short, untidy garden terminating in a high wall. Behind that was a space on which a building had been in course of erection when the armistice put an end to Government work. It was designed as a small factory for the making of fuses, and was an eyesore to Mr. Stedland, since he owned the ground on which it was built.
“Jope,” he said, turning suddenly, “was there anybody in court we know?”
“No, Mr. Stedland,” said the man, pausing in surprise. “Not that I know, except Inspector—”
“Never mind about the Inspector,” answered Mr. Stedland impatiently. “I know all the splits who were there. Was there anybody else—anybody who has a grudge against us?”
“No, Mr. Stedland. What does it matter if there was?” asked the valorous Jope. “I think we’re a match for any of ’em.”
“How long have we been in partnership?” asked Stedland unpleasantly, as he poured himself out a tot of whisky.
The man’s face twisted in an ingratiating smile.
“Well, we’ve been together some time now, Mr. Stedland,” he said.
Stedland smacked his lips and looked out of the window again.
“Yes,” he said after a while, “we’ve been together a long time now. In fact, you would almost have finished your sentence, if I had told the police what I knew about you seven years ago—”
The man winced, and changed the subject. He might have realised, had he thought, that the sentence of seven years had been commuted by Stedland to a sentence of life servitude, but Mr. Jope was no thinker.
“Anything for the Bank today, sir?” he asked.
“Don’t be a fool,” said Stedland. “The Bank closed at three. Now, Jope,” he turned on the other, “in future you sleep in the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen, sir?” said the astonished servant, and Stedland nodded.
“I’m taking no more risks of a night visitor,” he said. “That fellow was on me before I knew where I was, and if I hadn’t had a gun handy he would have beaten me. The kitchen is the only way you can break into this house from the outside, and I’ve got a feeling at the back of my mind that something might happen.”
“But he’s gone to gaol.”
“I’m not talking about him,” snarled Stedland. “Do you understand, take your bed to the kitchen.”
“It’s a bit draughty—” began Jope.
“Take your bed to the kitchen,” roared Stedland, glaring at the man.
“Certainly, sir,” said Jope with alacrity.
When his servant had gone, Stedland took off his coat and put on one of stained alpaca, unlocked the safe, and took out a book. It was a passbook from his bank, and its study was very gratifying. Mr. Stedland dreamed dreams of a South American ranch and a life of ease and quiet. Twelve years’ strenuous work in London had made him a comparatively rich man. He had worked cautiously and patiently and had pursued the business of blackmail in a businesslike manner. His cash balance was with one of the best
