“Madam will see you at once,” was the message he returned with.
A few minutes later Mrs. Cathcart sailed into the drawing-room, a little harder of face than usual, thought Mr. Warrell, and wondered why.
“Well, Warrell,” she said briskly, “what machination of the devil has brought you here? Sit down, won’t you?”
He seated himself deliberately. He placed his hat upon the floor, and peeling his gloves, deposited them with unnecessary care in the satin-lined interior.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Cathcart impatiently. “Are those Canadian Pacifics down again?”
“They are slightly up,” said Mr. Warrell, with a smile which was intended both to conciliate and to flatter. “I think your view on Canadian Pacifics is a very sound one.”
He knew that Mrs. Cathcart would ordinarily desire nothing better than a tribute to her judgment, but now she dismissed the compliment, realising that he had not come all the way from Throgmorton Street to say kindly things about her perspicacity.
“I will say all that is in my mind,” Mr. Warrell went on, choosing his words and endeavouring by the adoption of a pained smile to express in some tangible form his frankness. “You owe us some seven hundred pounds, Mrs. Cathcart.”
She nodded.
“You have ample security,” she said.
“That I realise,” he agreed, addressing the ceiling, “but the question is whether you are prepared to make good in actual cash the differences which are due to us.”
“There is no question at all about it,” she said brusquely, “so far as I am concerned, I cannot raise seven hundred shillings.”
“Suppose,” suggested Mr. Warrell, with his eyes still upraised, “suppose I could find somebody who would be willing to buy your necklace—I think that was the article you deposited with us—for a thousand pounds?”
“It is worth considerably more than that,” said Mrs. Cathcart sharply.
“Possibly,” said the other, “but I am anxious to keep things out of the paper.”
He had launched his bombshell.
“Exactly what do you mean?” she demanded, rising to her feet. She stood glowering down at him.
“Do not misunderstand me,” he said hastily. “I will explain in a sentence. Your diamond necklace has been stolen from my safe.”
“Stolen!”
She went white.
“Stolen,” said Mr. Warrell, “by a gang of burglars which has been engaged in its operations for the past twelve months in the City of London. You see, my dear Mrs. Cathcart,” he went on, “that it is a very embarrassing situation for both of us. I do not want my clients to know that I accept jewels from ladies as collateral security against differences, and you,” he was so rude as to point to emphasise his words, “do not, I imagine, desire your friends to know that it was necessary for you to deposit those jewels.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, I could have reported the matter to the police, sent out a description of the necklace, and possibly recovered the loss from an insurance company, but that I do not wish to do.”
He might have added, this good business man, that his insurance policy would not have covered such a loss, for when premiums are adjusted to cover the risk of a stockbroker’s office, they do not as a rule foreshadow the possibility of a jewel robbery.
“I am willing to stand the loss myself,” he continued, “that is to say, I am willing to make good a reasonable amount out of my own pocket, as much for your sake as for mine. On the other hand, if you do not agree to my suggestion, I have no other alternative than to report the matter very, very fully, very fully,” he repeated with emphasis, “to the police and to the press. Now, what do you think?”
Mrs. Cathcart might have said in truth that she did not know what to think.
The necklace was a valuable one, and there were other considerations.
Mr. Warrell was evidently thinking of its sentimental value, for he went on—
“But for the fact that jewels of this kind have associations I might suggest that your new son-in-law would possibly replace your loss.”
She turned upon him with a hard smile.
“My new son-in-law!” she scoffed. “Good Lord!”
Warrell knew Standerton, and regarded him as one of Fortune’s favourites, and was in no doubt as to his financial stability.
The contempt in the woman’s tone shocked him as only a City man can be shocked by a whisper against the credit of gilt-edged stock.
For the moment he forgot the object of his visit.
He would have liked to have asked for an explanation, but he felt that it did not lie within the province of Mrs. Cathcart’s broker to demand information upon her domestic affairs.
“It is a pretty rotten mess you have got me into, Warrell,” she said, and got up.
He rose with her, picked up his hat, and exhumed his buried gloves.
“It is very awkward indeed,” he said, “tremendously awkward for you, and tremendously awkward for me my dear Mrs. Cathcart. I am sure you will pity me in my embarrassment.”
“I am too busy pitying myself,” she said shortly.
She sat in the drawing-room alone after the broker’s departure.
What should she do? For what Warrell did not know was that the necklace was not hers. It had been one which the old Colonel had had reset for his daughter, and which had been bequeathed to the girl in her father’s will.
A family circle which consists of a mother and a daughter exercises communal rights over property which may appear curious to families more extensive in point of number. Though Edith had known the jewel was hers, she had not demurred when her mother had worn it, and had never even hinted that she would prefer to include it amongst the meagre stock of jewellery in her own case.
Yet
