Blue Hand

Blue Hand

By Edgar Wallace.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. I
4. II
5. III
6. IV
7. V
8. VI
9. VII
10. VIII
11. IX
12. X
13. XI
14. XII
15. XIII
16. XIV
17. XV
18. XVI
19. XVII
20. XVIII
21. XIX
22. XX
23. XXI
24. XXII
25. XXIII
26. XXIV
27. XXV
28. XXVI
29. XXVII
30. XXVIII
31. XIX
32. XXX
33. XXXI
34. XXXII
35. XXXIII
36. XXXIV
37. XXXV
38. XXXVI
39. XXXVII
40. XXXVIII
41. XXXIX
42. XL
43. XLI
44. XLII
45. XLIII
46. XLIV
47. XLV
48. XLVI
49. XLVII
50. XLVIII
51. XLIX
52. Colophon
53. Uncopyright

Imprint

This ebook is the product of many hours of hard work by volunteers for Standard Ebooks, and builds on the hard work of other literature lovers made possible by the public domain.

This particular ebook is based on a transcription from Faded Page Canada and on digital scans from the Internet Archive.

The source text and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. They may still be copyrighted in other countries, so users located outside of the United States must check their local laws before using this ebook. The creators of, and contributors to, this ebook dedicate their contributions to the worldwide public domain via the terms in the CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication. For full license information, see the Uncopyright at the end of this ebook.

Standard Ebooks is a volunteer-driven project that produces ebook editions of public domain literature using modern typography, technology, and editorial standards, and distributes them free of cost. You can download this and other ebooks carefully produced for true book lovers at standardebooks.org.

I

R. Septimus Salter pressed the bell on his table for the third time and uttered a soft growl.

He was a stout, elderly man, and with his big red face and white side-whiskers, looked more like a prosperous farmer than a successful lawyer. The cut of his clothes was queerly out of date, the high white collar and the black satin cravat that bulged above a flowered waistcoat were of the fashion of 1850, in which year Mr. Salter was a little ahead of his time so far as fashions were concerned. But the years had caught him up and passed him, and although there was not a more up-to-date solicitor in London, he remained faithful to the style in which he had made a reputation as a “buck.”

He pressed the bell again, this time impatiently.

“Confound the fellow!” he muttered, and rising to his feet, he stalked into the little room where his secretary was usually to be found.

He had expected to find the apartment empty, but it was not. A chair had been drawn sideways up to the big ink-stained table, and kneeling on this, his elbows on the table, his face between his hands, was a young man who was absorbed in the perusal of a document, one of the many which littered the table.

“Steele!” said Mr. Salter sharply, and the reader looked up with a start and sprang to his feet.

He was taller than the average and broad of shoulder, though he gave an impression of litheness. His tanned face spoke eloquently of days spent out of doors, the straight nose, the firm mouth, and the strong chin were all part of the characteristic “soldier face” moulded by four years of war into a semblance of hardness.

Now he was a little confused, more like the guilty schoolboy than the V.C. who had tackled eight enemy aeroplanes, and had come back to his aerodrome with a dozen bullets in his body.

“Really, Steele,” said Mr. Salter reproachfully, “you are too bad. I have rung the bell three times for you.”

“I’m awfully sorry, sir,” said Jim Steele, and that disarming smile of his went straight to the old man’s heart.

“What are you doing here?” growled Mr. Salter, looking at the papers on the desk, and then with a “tut” of impatience, “Aren’t you tired of going over the Danton case?”

“No, sir, I’m not,” said Steele quietly. “I have a feeling that Lady Mary Danton can be found, and I think if she is found there will be a very satisfactory explanation for her disappearance, and one which will rather disconcert⁠—” He stopped, fearful of committing an indiscretion.

Mr. Salter looked at him keenly and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

“You don’t like Mr. Groat?” he asked, and Jim laughed.

“Well, sir, it’s not for me to like him or dislike him,” he replied. “Personally, I’ve no use for that kind of person. The only excuse a man of thirty can produce for not having been in the war, is that he was dead at the time.”

“He had a weak heart,” suggested Mr. Salter, but without any great conviction.

“I think he had,” said Jim with a little twist of his lips. “We used to call it a ‘poor heart’ in the army. It made men go sick on the eve of a battle, and drove them into dugouts when they should have been advancing across the open with their comrades.”

Mr. Salter looked down at the papers.

“Put them away, Steele,” he said quietly. “You’re not going to get any satisfaction out of the search for a woman who⁠—why, she must have disappeared when you were a child of five.”

“I wish, sir⁠—” began Steele, and hesitated. “Of course, it’s really no business of mine,” he smiled, “and I’ve no right to ask you, but I’d like to hear more details of that disappearance if you can spare me the time⁠—and if you feel inclined. I’ve never had the courage to question you before. What is the real story of her disappearance?”

Mr. Salter frowned, and