“No, no, I have my work. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to Miss Belman for putting me on the track of the most fascinating character of modern times. What a man!” said Mr. Daver, unconsciously repeating J. G. Reeder’s tribute. “I’ve been trying to trace his early career—no, no, I’ll stand: I must run away in a minute or two. Is anything known about his early life? Was he married?”
Mr. Reeder nodded. He had not the slightest idea that John Flack was married, but it seemed a moment to assert the universality of his knowledge. He was quite unprepared for the effect upon Daver. The jaw of the yellow-faced man dropped.
“Married?” he squeaked. “Who told you he was married? Where was he married?”
“That is a matter,” said Mr. Reeder gravely, “which I cannot discuss.”
“Married!” Daver rubbed his little round head irritably, but did not pursue the subject. He made some inane reference to the weather and bustled out of the room.
Mr. Reeder settled himself in what he called the banqueting hall with an illustrated paper, awaiting an opportunity which he knew must present itself sooner or later.
The servants he had passed under review. Girls were employed to wait at table, and these lived in a small cottage on the Siltbury side of the estate. The manservants, including the hall porter, seemed above suspicion. The porter was an old army man with a row of medals across his uniform jacket; his assistant was a chinless youth recruited from Siltbury. He apparently was the only member of the staff that did not live in one of the cottages. In the main, the women servants were an unpromising lot. The infuriated waitress was his only hope, although as likely as not she would talk of nothing but her grievances.
From where he sat he had a view of the lawn. At three o’clock the Colonel and the Rev. Mr. Dean and Olga Crewe passed out of the main gate, evidently bound for Siltbury. He rang the bell and, to his satisfaction, the aggrieved waitress came and took his order for tea.
“This is a nice place,” said Mr. Reeder conversationally.
The girl’s “Yes, sir” was snappy.
“I suppose,” mused Mr. Reeder, looking out of the window, “that this is the sort of situation that a lot of girls would give their heads to get and break their hearts to lose?”
Evidently she did not agree.
“The upstairs work isn’t so bad,” she said, “and there’s not much to do in the dining room. But it’s too slow for me. I was at a big hotel before I came here. I’m going to a better job—and the sooner the better.”
She admitted that the money was good, but she had a longing for that imponderable quantity which she described as “life.” She also expressed a preference for man guests.
“Miss Crewe—so called—gives more trouble than all the rest of the people put together,” she said. “I can’t make her out. First she wants one room, then she wants another. Why she can’t stay with her husband, I don’t know.”
“With her—?” Mr. Reeder looked at her in pained surprise. “Perhaps they don’t get on well together?”
“They used to get on all right. If they weren’t married, I could understand all the mystery they’re making—pretending they’re not, him in his room and she in hers, and meeting like strangers. When all that kind of deceit is going on, things are bound to get lost,” she added inconsequently.
“How long has this been—er—going on?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“Only the last week or so,” said the girl viciously. “I know they’re married, because I’ve seen her marriage certificate—they’ve been married six years. She keeps it in her dressing case.”
She looked at him with sudden suspicion.
“I oughtn’t to have told you that. I don’t want to make trouble for anybody, and I bear them no malice, though they’ve treated me worse’n a dog,” she said. “Nobody else in the house but me knows. I was her maid for two years. But if people don’t treat me right, I don’t treat them right.”
“Married six years? Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder.
And then he suddenly turned his head and faced her.
“Would you like fifty pounds?” he asked. “That is the immense sum I will give you for just one little peep at that marriage certificate.”
The girl went red.
“You’re trying to catch me,” she said, hesitated, and then: “I don’t want to get her into trouble.”
“I am a detective,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I am working on behalf of the Chief Registrar, and we have a doubt as to whether that marriage was legal. I could, of course, search the young lady’s room and find the certificate for myself, but if you would care to help me, and fifty pounds has any attraction for you—”
She paused irresolutely and said she would see. Half an hour later she came into the hall with the news that she had been unsuccessful in her search. She had found the envelope in which the certificate had been kept, but the document itself was gone.
Mr. Reeder did not ask the name of the bridegroom, nor was he mentioned, for he was pretty certain that he knew that fortunate man. He put the question, and the girl answered as he had expected.
“There is one thing I would like to ask you: do you remember the name of the girl’s father?”
“John Crewe, merchant,” she said promptly. “The mother’s name was Hannah. He made me swear on the Bible I’d never tell a soul that I knew they were married.”
“Does anybody else know? You said ‘nobody,’ I think?”
The girl hesitated.
“Yes, Mrs. Burton knows. She knows everything.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Reeder, and, opening his pocketbook, took out two five-pound notes. “What was the husband’s profession—do you remember that?”
The woman’s lips curled.
“Secretary. Why call himself secretary, I don’t know, and him an independent gentleman!”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Reeder again.
He telephoned
