“At any rate Lady Constance Dex is somewhere within the radius of four miles,” he said, grimly, “and I will find her if I have to pull down the Secret House stone by stone.”
XVI
The morning of Doris Gray’s wedding dawned fair and bright, and she sat by the window which overlooked the gardens in Brakely Square, her hands clasped across her knees, her mind in a very tangle of confusion. It was happy for her (she argued) that there were so many considerations attached to this wedding that she had not an opportunity of thinking out, logically and to its proper end, the consequence of this act of hers.
She had had a wire from Frank on the night previous, and to her surprise it had been dated from Great Bradley. For some reason which she could not define she was annoyed that he could leave London, and be so absorbed in his work on the eve of his wedding. She gathered that his presence in that town had to do with his investigations in the Tollington case. She thought that at least he might have spent one day near her in case she wished to consult him. He took much for granted, she thought petulantly. Poltavo, on the contrary, had been most assiduous in his attention. He had had tea with her the previous afternoon, and with singular delicacy had avoided any reference to the forthcoming marriage or to his own views on the subject. But all that he did not speak, he looked. He conveyed the misery in which he stood with subtle suggestion. She felt sorry for him, had no doubt of the genuineness of his affection, or his disinterestedness. A profitable day for Poltavo in ordinary circumstances.
A maid brought her from her reverie to the practical realities of life.
“Mr. Debenham has called, miss,” said the girl. “I have shown him into the drawing-room.”
“Mr. Debenham?” repeated Doris, with a puzzled frown. “Oh, yes, the lawyer; I will come down to him.”
She found the staid solicitor walking up and down the drawing-room abstractedly.
“I suppose you know that I shall be a necessary guest at your wedding,” he said, as he shook hands. “I have to deliver to you the keys of your uncle’s safe at the London Safe Deposit. I have a memorandum here of the exact amount of money which should be in that safe.”
He laid the paper on the table.
“You can look at the items at your leisure, but roughly it amounts to eight hundred thousand pounds, which was left you by your late father, who, I understand, died when you were a child.”
She nodded.
“That sum is in gilt-edged securities, and you will probably find that a number of dividends are due to you. The late Mr. Farrington, when he made his arrangements for your future, chose this somewhat unusual and bizarre method of protecting your money, much against my will. I might tell you,” he went on, “that he consulted me about six years ago on the subject, and I strongly advised him against it. As it happened, I was wrong, for immediately afterwards, as his books show, he must have suffered enormous losses, and although I make no suggestion against his character,”—he raised his hand deprecatingly—“yet I do say that the situation which was created by the slump in Canadian Pacifics of which he was a large holder, might very easily have tempted a man not so strong-willed as Mr. Farrington. At the present moment,” he went on, “I have no more to do than discharge my duty, and I have called beforehand to see you and to ask whether your uncle spoke of the great Tollington fortune of which he was one of the trustees, though as I believe—as I know, in fact—he never handled the money.”
She looked surprised.
“It is curious that you should ask that,” she said. “Mr. Doughton is engaged in searching for the heir to that fortune.”
Debenham nodded.
“So I understand,” he said. “I ask because I received a communication from the other trustees in America, and I am afraid your future husband’s search will be unavailing unless he can produce the heir within the next forty-eight hours.”
“Why is that?” she asked in surprise.
“The terms of the will are peculiar,” said Mr. Debenham, walking up and down as he spoke. “The Tollington fortune, as you may know—”
“I know nothing about it,” she interrupted.
“Then I will tell you.” He smiled. “The fortune descends to the heir and to his wife in equal proportions.”
“Suppose he is not blessed with a wife?” She smiled with something like her old gaiety.
“In that case the money automatically goes to the woman the heir eventually marries. But the terms of the will are that the heir shall be discovered within twenty years of the date of Tollington’s death. The time of grace expires tomorrow.”
“Poor Frank,” she said, shaking her head, “and he is working so hard with his clues! I suppose if he does not produce that mysterious individual by tomorrow there will be no reward for him?”
The lawyer shook his head.
“I should hardly think it likely,” he said, “because the reward is for the man who complies with the conditions of the will within a stipulated time. It was because I knew Mr. Doughton had some interest in it, and because also”—he hesitated—“I thought that your uncle might have taken you into his confidence.”
“That he might have told me who this missing person was, and that he himself knew; and for some reason suppressed the fact?” she asked, quickly. “Is that what you suggest, Mr. Debenham?”
“Please do not be angry with me,” said the lawyer, quickly; “I do not wish to say anything against Mr. Farrington; but I know he was a very shrewd and calculating man, and I thought possibly that he might have taken you that much into his confidence, and that you might be able to help your future
