Eunice held her breath. Now she knew the secret of this strange household! Jim had told her something about it; told her of the little shipping clerk who had married Mrs. Groat, and for whom she had so profound a contempt. A shipping clerk from the old man’s office, whom he had paid to marry the girl that her shame should be hidden.
Digby Groat was actually the son of—the Marquis of Estremeda! In law he was not even the heir to the Danton millions!
XXI
Eunice could only stare at the old woman.
“Get on with your book,” grumbled Mrs. Groat pettishly, and the girl, looking up through her lashes, saw the suspicious eyes fixed on her and the tremulous mouth moving as though she were speaking.
She must tell Jim. Despite her sense of loyalty, she realized that this was imperative. Jim was vitally interested in the disposal of the Danton estate, and he must know.
Suddenly the old woman began speaking again.
“What did I tell you just now?” she asked.
“You were talking about your youth,” said the girl.
“Did I say anything about—a man?” asked the old woman suspiciously. She had forgotten! Eunice forced the lie to her lips.
“No,” she replied, so loudly that anybody but this muddled woman would have known she was not speaking the truth.
“Be careful of my son,” said Mrs. Groat after a while. “Don’t cross him. He’s not a bad lad, not a bad lad”—she shook her head and glanced slyly at the girl. “He is like his father in many ways.”
“Mr. Groat?” said Eunice, and felt inexpressively mean at taking advantage of the woman’s infirmity, but she steeled her heart with the thought that Jim must benefit by her knowledge.
“Groat,” sneered the old woman contemptuously, “that worm. No—yes, of course he was Groat. Who else could he be; who else?” she asked, her voice rising wrathfully.
There was a sound outside and she turned her head and listened.
“You won’t leave me alone, Miss Weldon, until the nurse comes back, will you?” she whispered with pathetic eagerness. “You promise me that?”
“Why, of course I promise you,” said Eunice, smiling; “that is why I am here, to keep you company.”
The door handle turned and the old woman watched it, fascinated. Eunice heard her audible gasp as Digby came in. He was in evening dress and smoking a cigarette through a long holder.
He seemed for the moment taken aback by the sight of Eunice and then smiled.
“Of course, it is the nurse’s night out, isn’t it? How are you feeling tonight, mother?”
“Very well, my boy,” she quavered, “very well indeed. Miss Weldon is keeping me company.”
“Splendid,” said Digby. “I hope Miss Weldon hasn’t been making your flesh creep.”
“Oh, no,” said the girl, shocked, “of course I haven’t. How could I?”
“I was wondering whether you had been telling mother of our mysterious visitor,” he laughed as he pulled up an easy chair and sat down. “You don’t mind my smoke, mother, do you?”
Eunice thought that even if old Jane Groat had objected it would not have made the slightest difference to her son, but the old woman shook her head and again turned her pleading eyes on Eunice.
“I should like to catch that lady,” said Digby, watching a curl of smoke rise to the ceiling.
“What lady, my boy?” asked Mrs. Groat.
“The lady who has been wandering loose round this house at night, leaving her mark upon the panels of my door.”
“A burglar,” said the old woman, and did not seem greatly alarmed.
Digby shook his head.
“A woman and a criminal, I understand. She left a clear fingerprint, and Scotland Yard have had the photograph and have identified it with that of a woman who served a sentence in Holloway Gaol.”
A slight noise attracted Eunice and she turned to look at Jane Groat.
She was sitting bolt upright, her black eyes staring, her face working convulsively.
“What woman?” she asked harshly. “What are you talking about?”
Digby seemed as much surprised as the girl to discover the effect the statement had made upon his mother.
“The woman who has been getting into this house and making herself a confounded nuisance with her melodramatic signature.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Groat with painful slowness.
“She has left the mark of a blue hand on my door—”
Before he could finish the sentence his mother was on her feet, staring down at him with terror in her eyes.
“A blue hand, a blue hand!” she cried wildly. “What was that woman’s name?”
“According to the police report, Madge Benson,” said Digby.
For a second she glared at him wildly.
“Blue hand, blue hand,” she mumbled, and would have collapsed but for the fact that Eunice had recognized the symptoms and was by her side and took her in her strong young arms.
XXII
Outside the door in the darkened passage a man was listening intentive. He had trailed Digby Groat all that evening, and had followed him into the house. Hearing a movement of footsteps within, he slipped into a side passage and waited. Eunice flew past the entrance to the passage and Jim Steele thought it was time that he made a move. In a few minutes the house would be aroused, for he guessed that the old woman had collapsed. It was a desperate, mad enterprise of his, to enter the great household at so early an hour, but he had a particular reason for wishing to discover the contents of a letter which he had seen slipped into Digby’s hand that night.
Jim had been following him without success until Digby Groat had alighted at Piccadilly Circus apparently to buy a newspaper. Then a stranger had edged close to him and Jim had seen the quick passage of the white envelope. He meant to see that letter.
He reached the ground floor in safety and hesitated. Should he go into the laboratory whither
