“You won’t be hurt unless you give us trouble,” he said. To her surprise he spoke in perfect English. “My patron requires you.”
“Who is your patron?”
It gave her a sense of comfort to know that this queer little shape could understand all she said and could converse intelligently. It made him less of a strange and menacing animal, and removed some of the terror from the situation. And it delayed the moment when she would find her cumbersome garter a vital safeguard.
“I cannot answer your questions, miss,” he replied. “But you will not be hurt. Last night you would have been killed—I myself would have killed you—but that is not the order today. If you are sensible and quiet, nothing will happen.”
He stood up and looked out of the window; neither the shades nor the curtains had been drawn, and he could see to the opposite side of the road.
“I must tell you what will occur,” he said. He had a trick of pedantry which might have amused her at any other time. “This house is being watched by the police. After a while they will grow tired and careless, and then my friend will signal to me that they have walked away. When that happens we will go.”
She could not see him; she could only guess that his “friend” was one of the two. She had noticed that all three were dressed in correct European garb, and the incongruity of their overcoats and derby hats added a touch of the bizarre.
“Will you therefore sit nearer to the window, at your writing place? If the telephone rings you will not answer.”
So they sat, he on one side of the table and she on the other, his eyes roving to the sidewalk and from the sidewalk to his prisoner. She saw the limousines stream past on their way to the theatres, and wondered if, on any stage in London, there would be enacted a drama quite as improbable as this in which she played a leading part.
After a long interval of silence:
“I suppose you realize that, when I do not arrive at Mr. Coldwell’s house, he will either telephone or come back for me?”
He nodded.
“We have already made provision,” he said simply. “We have sent him a telegram in your name, saying that you have been called away to—” He hesitated. “I cannot remember the town; it is in the West and is on the sea.”
“Plymouth?” she asked quickly.
“Plymouth,” he nodded. “The telegram also told him your hotel. Plymouth is very far, and by the time he discovers you have not arrived”—a pause—“by that time you will not be here.”
“Where shall I be?” she asked.
“You will be in the harem of Diga Nagara, the great prince who is dead yet is alive.”
Leslie Maughan did not swoon. She stared across the table at the little man. He was nodding solemnly.
“Diga Nagara, the great prince—who was dead and is alive!”
XVIII
Children—little Elizabeth and that unseen boy of his—! Peter Dawlish walked up and down his cramped room, his hands in his pockets, an unlighted cigarette between his lips. The hopelessness of it all! Where and how could he begin his search? That baby of his belonged to the world of unreality, to the mists of dreams. Elizabeth was real. He could see those wide, frightened eyes of hers, the transparent pallor of her face. He shut his eyes and there she was again, frail, delicate, pleading for help he was powerless to give.
He was alone in the house. Through the thin partition walls which separated one jerry-built cottage from the other he heard the sound of a man and a wife quarrelling. In the street a boy was whistling flatly a popular tune. If Mrs. Inglethorne were here he would have the truth though he had to choke it from her. Who else would know but she?
He had been such a short time in the lodging that he was not even acquainted with her friends—the slinking little thieves who came to barter and haggle over the property they had stolen knew no more of her than that she was a mean and grinding bargainer. She had no cronies to come and spend the evening with her; by very reason of her peculiar business, she could not risk the giving or taking of confidences.
The police had been to the house and made a perfunctory search, their object being to discover other evidence against her. But they had looked only for articles of value which she might have purchased: lengths of cloth and silk (she specialized in this trade), and they were not particularly concerned about Elizabeth. Nobody cared very much about Elizabeth, except Leslie and he.
This thought occurred to him as he walked to and fro—and thought breeds thought. Might he not, searching with another object, discover what they had overlooked—one fragment of a clue that would bring him to the child? Why should he be concerned? What legal or moral right had he to detach Mrs. Inglethorne’s daughter from her legal guardian? He considered this matter, only to brush it aside. Presently he carried the lamp downstairs with the faintly pleasurable hope which comes to all who engage in secret searches.
The woman’s room was accessible. The lock he had broken had not been repaired. He went in, put the lamp on the mantelpiece and looked round. Search parties usually leave chaos behind them, but the police in their investigation had, if anything, tidied the room. There were a number of dresses, obviously the woman’s, stacked on the bed; two oleographs that once decorated the wall had been lifted down—clean squares on the wallpaper marked their old position. By the side of the clothes was a square wooden box, of the kind that soldiers use for the transportation of their possessions. This had been opened and was unlocked. The lid had jammed upon a wedge of cloth as it had been
