The Lansdowns retained one asset—the house in which they were now living, and which had been divided up into three self-contained flats before the blow fell. Into one of these, the smallest, Mrs. Lansdown carried such of her personal belongings as she could salvage from the wreck of fortune.
They were sitting together on the night after Sybil’s return, the mother reading, Sybil writing at the little escritoire in the corner of the sitting-room. Presently Mrs. Lansdown put down her book.
“The trip was foolish—it was stupid of me to sanction it. I am worried a little about the consequence, dear. It is all so frantically unreal and fantastic that if it were anybody but you who had told me I should dismiss the story as a piece of romantic imagination.”
“Who was Silva, mother?”
“The Portuguese? He was quite a poor man; a landscape gardener. Your father discovered him in Madeira and brought him to the notice of his cousin. I have always known that he was grateful to your dear father, who helped him in many ways. He became head gardener to our cousin—who was not the nicest man to work for; he had an unpleasant habit of thrashing servants who displeased him, and I believe he once struck Silva. Do you remember him, Sybil?”
Sybil nodded.
“A big, red-faced man with a tremendous voice—he used to drive in a carriage drawn by four horses. I hated him!”
Mrs. Lansdown took up her book again, read a line or two, and then put it down.
“What is this man, Sybil?”
Sybil laughed.
“Mother, that is the fourth time you’ve asked me! I don’t know. He was very nice and had wonderful blue eyes.”
“A gentleman?”
“Yes,” quickly. “Not a perfectly mannered man, I should think; very alert, very capable, a most trustable man.”
Mrs. Lansdown turned a page of her book without reading.
“What is he—his profession, I mean?”
Sybil hesitated.
“I don’t know—now. He used to be a detective-inspector, but he has left the police force. Didn’t I tell you?” And then, a little defiantly: “What is the social position of a detective?”
Her mother smiled to herself.
“About the same as a librarian, my dear,” she said quietly. “In the matter of professions he is on the same plane as my little girl. It wasn’t wise to ask you that.”
The girl got up from the table, and, putting her arms about the elder woman, hugged her.
“You are thinking because I poured out my young heart to him, as they say in sentimental stories, that I’m in love with him. Well, I’m not! He amuses me awfully—he says the quaintest things. And I like him in spite of the strong language I heard him use to a man on the quay when I was waiting to get my baggage examined. He’s very straight and clean. I feel that. I’m glad the wretched key was lost—I could have swooned on his neck for joy when he hit that horrible thief. But I’m no more in love with him than—He’s probably married and has a large and rosy family.”
There was a knock at the door. Sybil went to open it and gazed, open-eyed and in some embarrassment, at the subject of their conversation.
“Won’t you come in, Mr. Martin?” she said, a little awkwardly.
He walked past her into the tiny square hall, and presently followed her into the sitting-room. One shrewd glance the older woman gave him, and was satisfied.
“You’re Mr. Martin?” she smiled, as she took his hand in hers. “I wanted to thank you personally for your care of my daughter.”
“I’m rather glad you mentioned that, because I didn’t know exactly how I was going to start my interesting conversation,” said Dick, choosing, to the girl’s consternation, the least stable and most fragile of all the chairs in the room. “Safety first is a mighty hackneyed expression, but, like all these old slogans you’re tired of hearing, it is concentrated truth. Your key, by the way, Miss Lansdown, is in my bank, and if anybody pushes you very hard you can tell them so.”
She stared at him open-mouthed.
“But I thought the key was lost?”
“The bag was lost,” he corrected. “When I handed you back that box on the train, I took the liberty of extracting the key; you heard it rattle, and it was heavy enough for a key, for I put a half-crown piece in the box.”
“But it was never out of my sight,” gasped the girl.
Dick smiled sweetly.
“The art of ringing changes is to keep everything in sight.”
“But it is impossible,” said Sybil.
He had an exasperating habit of passing to the next subject without apology.
“Miss Lansdown, I’m going to shock you pretty badly. You had an idea, when you met me, that I was a respectable member of society. I was—I’m not today. I’m the nearest approach to a private detective you have ever met—and private detectives are nearly mean. You don’t change colour, so I guess you’re too numb to feel.”
“My daughter had an idea you were in that profession,” said Mrs. Lansdown, her eyes dancing with amusement. She was beginning to understand the attraction this drawling man had for her daughter.
“I’m glad,” said Dick soberly. “Now, when I start to ask questions, you won’t be thinking that I’m consumed with idle curiosity. You told me about your cousin,” he said, addressing Sybil; “I’m anxious to know what other cousins Lord Selford has.”
“None,” said the girl. “Mother and I are his only living relatives—unless he is married.”
She saw the change that came instantly to his face. The eyes narrowed, the mouth grew harder; something of his levity fell away from him.
“I was afraid of that,” he said quietly. “I guessed it, and I was afraid of it. I knew that you were in this scheme somewhere, but I couldn’t quite see how. Have you any friends in the country, ma’am?” he asked Mrs. Lansdown.
“Yes, I have several,” she answered in surprise. “Why?”
“You’re on the telephone, are you not?” He glanced at the instrument that
