He put the light on to the place whence the water was coming. There were three circular holes in the wall, from each of which was gushing a solid stream.
“What is it?” she asked in a terrified whisper.
“Get on to the steps and stay there,” he ordered peremptorily, and made investigation to see if it was possible to staunch the flow. He saw at a glance that this was impossible. And now the mystery of the disappearances was a mystery no longer.
The water came up with incredible rapidity, first to his knees, then to his thighs, and he joined her on the steps.
There was no possible escape for them. He guessed the water would come up only so far as would make it impossible for them to reach the beam across the roof or the pulley, the dreadful purpose of which he could guess. The dead must be got out of this charnel house in some way or other. Strong swimmer as he was, he knew that in the hours ahead it would be impossible to keep afloat.
He slipped off his coat and vest and unbuttoned his collar.
“You had better take off your skirt,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Can you swim?”
“Yes,” she answered in a low voice.
He did not ask her the real question which was in his mind: for how long could she swim?
There was a long silence; the water crept higher; and then: “Are you very much afraid?” he asked, and took her hand in his.
“No, I don’t think I am,” she said. “It is wonderful having you with me—why are they doing this?”
He said nothing, but carried the soft hand to his lips and kissed it.
The water was now reaching the top step. Reeder stood with his back to the iron door, waiting. And then he felt something touch the door from the other side. There was a faint click, as though a bolt had been slipped back. He put her gently aside and held his palms to the door. There was no doubt now: somebody was fumbling on the other side. He went down a step and presently he felt the door yield and come towards him, and there was a momentary gleam of light. In another second he had wrenched the door open and sprung through.
“Hands up!”
Whoever it was had dropped his lamp, and now Mr. Reeder focused the light of his own torch and nearly dropped.
For the man in the passage was Mills, the ex-convict who had brought the tainted letter from Dartmoor!
“All right, guv’nor, it’s a cop,” growled the man.
And then the whole explanation flashed upon the detective. In an instant he had gripped the girl by the hand and dragged her through the narrow passage, into which the water was now steadily overrunning.
“Which way did you get in, Mills?” he demanded authoritatively.
“Through the window.”
“Show me—quick!”
The convict led the way to what was evidently the window through which the girl had looked with such longing. The bars had been removed; the window sash itself lifted from its rusty hinges; and in another second the three were standing on the grass, with the stars twinkling above them.
“Mills,” said Mr. Reeder, and his voice shook, “you came here to ‘bust’ this house.”
“That’s right,” growled Mills. “I tell you it’s a cop. I’m not going to give you any trouble.”
“Skip!” hissed Mr. Reeder. “And skip quick! Now, young lady, we’ll go for a little walk.”
A few seconds later a patrolling constable was smitten dumb by the apparition of a middle-aged man in shirt and trousers, and a lady who was inadequately attired in a silk petticoat.
“The Mexican company was Bracher & Bracher,” explained Reeder to his chief. “There was no John Baston. His room was a passageway by which the Brachers could get from one room to the other. The clerk in the Mexican Syndicate’s office was, of course, blind; I spotted that the moment I saw him. There are any number of blind typists employed in the City of London. A blind clerk was necessary if the identity of de Silvo with the Brachers was to be kept a secret.
“Bracher & Bracher had been going badly for years. It will probably be found that they have made away with clients’ money; and they hit upon this scheme of inducing foolish investors to put money into their syndicate on the promise of large dividends. Their victims were well chosen, and Joseph—who was the brains of the organisation—conducted the most rigorous investigation to make sure that these unfortunate people had no intimate friends. If they had any suspicion about an applicant, Brachers would write a letter deprecating the idea of an investment and suggesting that the too-shrewd dupe should find another and a safer method than the Mexican syndicate afforded.
“After they had paid one or two years’ dividends the wretched investor was lured to the house at Dulwich and there scientifically killed. You will probably find an unofficial cemetery in their grounds. So far as I can make out, they have stolen over a hundred and twenty thousand pounds in the past two years by this method.”
“It is incredible,” said the Prosecutor, “incredible!”
Mr. Reeder shrugged.
“Is there anything more incredible than the Burke and Hare murders? There are Burkes and Hares in every branch of society and in every period of history.”
“Why did they delay their execution of Miss Belman?”
Mr. Reeder coughed.
“They wanted to make a clean sweep, but did not wish to kill her until they had me in their hands. I rather suspect”—he coughed again—“that they thought I had an especial interest in the young lady.”
“And have you?” asked the Public Prosecutor.
Mr. Reeder did not reply.
Endnotes
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Slush—forged Bank of England notes. ↩
Colophon
