“I think, Steele, you’re the worst secretary I ever had,” he said in despair. “And if I weren’t your godfather and morally bound to help you, I should write you a polite little note saying your services were not required after the end of this week.”
Jim Steele laughed.
“I have expected that ever since I’ve been here,” he said.
There was a twinkle in the old lawyer’s eyes. He was secretly fond of Jim Steele; fonder than the boy could have imagined. But it was not only friendship and a sense of duty that held Jim down in his job. The young man was useful, and, despite his seeming inability to hear bells when he was wrapped up in his favourite study, most reliable.
“Shut that door,” he said gruffly, and when the other had obeyed, “I’m telling this story to you,” and he pointed a warning finger at Jim Steele, “not because I want to satisfy your curiosity, but because I hope that I’m going to kill all interest in the Danton mystery as you call it for evermore! Lady Mary Danton was the only daughter of the Earl of Plimstock—a title which is now extinct. She married, when she was quite a young girl, Jonathan Danton, a millionaire shipowner, and the marriage was not a success. Jonathan was a hard, sour man, and a sick man, too. You talk about Digby Groat having a bad heart, well, Jonathan had a real bad one. I think his ill-health was partly responsible for his harsh treatment of his wife. At any rate, the baby that was born to them, a girl, did not seem to bring them together—in fact, they grew farther apart. Danton had to go to America on business. Before he left, he came to this office and, sitting at that very table, he signed a will, one of the most extraordinary wills that I have ever had engrossed. He left the whole of his fortune to his daughter Dorothy, who was then three or four months old. In the event of her death, he provided that the money should go to his sister, Mrs. Groat, but not until twenty years after the date of the child’s death. In the meantime Mrs. Groat was entitled to enjoy the income from the estate.”
“Why did he do that?” asked Jim, puzzled.
“I think that is easily understood,” said Mr. Salter. “He was providing against the child’s death in its infancy, and he foresaw that the will might be contested by Lady Mary. As it was drawn up—I haven’t explained all the details—it could not be so contested for twenty years. However, it was not contested,” he said quietly. “Whilst Danton was in America, Lady Mary disappeared, and with her the baby. Nobody knew where she went to, but the baby and a strange nurse, who for some reason or other had care of the child, were traced to Margate. Possibly Lady Mary was there too, though we have no evidence of this. We do know that the nurse, who was the daughter of a fisherman and could handle a boat, took the child out on the sea one summer day and was overtaken by a fog. All the evidence shows that the little boat was run down by a liner, and its battered wreck was picked up at sea, and a week later the body of the nurse was recovered. We never knew what became of Lady Mary. Danton returned a day or two after the tragedy, and the news was broken to him by Mrs. Groat, his sister. It killed him.”
“And Lady Mary was never seen again?”
Salter shook his head.
“So you see, my boy,” he rose, and dropped his hand on the other’s shoulder, “even if by a miracle you could find Lady Mary, you could not in any way affect the position of Mrs. Groat, or her son. There is only one tiny actress in this drama who could ever have benefited by Jonathan Danton’s will, and she,” he lowered his voice until it was little more than a whisper, “she is beyond recall—beyond recall!”
There was a moment of silence.
“I realize that, sir,” said Jim Steele quietly, “only—”
“Only what?”
“I have a queer feeling that there is something wrong about the whole business, and I believe that if I gave my time to the task I could unveil this mystery.”
Mr. Salter looked at his secretary sharply, but Jim Steele met his eyes without faltering.
“You ought to be a detective,” he said ironically.
“I wish to heaven I was,” was the unexpected reply. “I offered my services to Scotland Yard two years ago when the Thirteen Gangs were holding up the banks with impunity.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” said the lawyer sarcastically as he opened the door, and then suddenly he turned. “Why did I ring for you?” he asked. “Oh, I remember! I want you to get out all those Danton leases of the Cumberland property.”
“Is Mrs. Groat selling?” asked Steele.
“She can’t sell yet,” said the lawyer, “but on the thirtieth of May, providing a caveat is not entered, she takes control of the Danton millions.”
“Or her son does,” said Jim significantly. He had followed his employer back to the big private office with its tiers of deed boxes, its worn furniture and threadbare carpet and general air of mustiness.
“A detective, eh?” snorted Mr. Salter as he sat down at his table. “And what is your equipment for your new profession?”
Jim smiled, but there was an unusual look in his face.
“Faith,” he said quietly.
“Faith? What is faith to a detective?” asked the startled Salter.
“ ‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for; the evidence of things unseen.’ ” Jim quoted the passage almost solemnly, and for a long time Mr. Salter did not speak. Then he took up a slip of paper on which he had scribbled some notes, and passed it across to Jim.
“See if you can ‘detect’ these deeds; they are in the strongroom,” he said,
