“So you’re Reeder, eh?” he grumbled, and was evidently not very much impressed by his visitor. “Sit down, sit down,” he said testily, walked to the door as though he were not certain that Mr. Reeder had closed it, and came back and flopped into his chair on the other side of the table. “I have sent for you in preference to notifying the police,” he said. “Sir James speaks of you, Mr. Reeder, as a gentleman of discretion.”
Mr. Reeder bowed slightly, and there followed a long and awkward pause, which the Undersecretary ended in an abrupt, irritable way.
“I have a nephew—Harry Carlin. Do you know him?”
“I know of him,” said Mr. Reeder truthfully; in his walk to the Foreign Office he had remembered the deserted wife.
“Then you know nothing good of him!” exploded his lordship. “The man is a blackguard, a waster, a disgrace to the name he bears! If he were not my brother’s son I would have him under lock and key tonight—the scoundrel! I have four bills in my possession—”
He stopped himself, pulled open a drawer savagely, took out a letter and slammed it on the table.
“Read that,” he snapped.
Mr. Reeder pulled his glasses a little farther up his nose (he always held them very tight when he was really using them) and perused the message. It was headed “The Eastleigh Home for Children,” and was a brief request for five thousand pounds, which the writer said he would send for that evening, and was signed “Arthur Lassard.”
“You know Lassard, of course?” said his lordship. “He is the gentleman associated with me in my philanthropic work. Certain monies were due for land which we purchased adjoining the home. As you probably know, there are lawyers who never accept cheques for properties they sell on behalf of their clients, and I had the money ready and left it with my secretary, and one of Lassard’s people was calling for it. That it was called for, I need hardly tell you,” said his lordship grimly. “Whoever planned the coup planned it well. They knew I would be speaking in the House of Lords last night; they also knew that I had recently changed my secretary and had engaged a gentleman to whom most of my associates are strangers. A bearded man came for the money at half-past six, produced a note from Mr. Lassard, and that was the end of the money, except that we have discovered that it was changed this morning into American bills. Of course, both letters were forged: Lassard never signed either, and made no demand whatever for the money, which was not needed for another week.”
“Did anybody know about this transaction?” asked Mr. Reeder.
His lordship nodded slowly.
“My nephew knew. He came to my house two days ago to borrow money. He has a small income from his late mother’s estate, but insufficient to support him in his reckless extravagance. He admitted frankly to me that he had come back from Aix broke. How long he had been in London I am unable to tell you, but he was in my library when my secretary came in with the money which I had drawn from the bank in preparation for paying the bill when it became due. Very foolishly I explained why I had so much cash in the house and why I was unable to oblige him with the thousand pounds which he wanted to borrow,” he added dourly.
Mr. Reeder scratched his chin.
“What am I to do?” he asked.
“I want you to find Carlin,” Lord Sellington almost snarled. “But most I want that money back—you understand, Reeder? You’re to tell him that unless he repays—”
Mr. Reeder was gazing steadily at the cornice moulding.
“It almost sounds as if I am being asked to compound a felony, my lord,” he said respectfully. “But I realise, in the peculiar circumstances, we must adopt peculiar methods. The black-bearded gentleman who called for the money would appear to have been”—he hesitated—“disguised?”
“Of course he was disguised,” said the other irritably.
“One reads of such things,” said Mr. Reeder with a sigh, “but so seldom does the bearded stranger appear in real life! Will you be good enough to tell me your nephew’s address?”
Lord Sellington took a card from his pocket and threw it across the table. It fell to the floor, but he did not apologise. He was that kind of man.
“Jermyn Mansions,” said Mr. Reeder as he rose. “I will see what can be done.”
Lord Sellington grunted something which might have been a tender farewell, but probably was not.
Jermyn Mansions is a very small, narrow-fronted building and, as Mr. Reeder knew—and he knew a great deal—was a block of residential flats, which were run by an ex-butler who was also the lessee of the establishment. By great good fortune, as he afterwards learned, Harry Carlin was at home, and in a few minutes the man from the Public Prosecutor’s office was ushered into a shabby drawing-room that overlooked Jermyn Street.
A tall young man stood by the window, looking disconsolately into that narrow and lively thoroughfare, and turned as Mr. Reeder was announced. Thin-faced, narrow-headed, small-eyed, if he possessed any of the family traits and failings, the most marked was perhaps his too ready irritation.
Mr. Reeder saw, through an open door, a very untidy bedroom, caught a glimpse of a battered trunk covered with Continental labels.
“Well, what the devil do you want?” demanded Mr. Carlin. Yet, in spite of his tone, there was an undercurrent of disquiet which Mr. Reeder detected.
“May I sit down?” said the detective and, without waiting for an invitation, pulled a chair from the wall and sat down gingerly, for he knew the quality of lodging-house chairs.
His self-possession, the hint of authority he carried in his voice, increased Mr. Harry Carlin’s uneasiness; and when Mr. Reeder plunged straight into the object of his visit, he saw the man go pale.
“It is a difficult subject to open,” said
