A police tender was standing outside the door of Leslie’s flat when Coldwell came back, and a dozen men stood about on the sidewalk. He beckoned Peter to him.
“You had better come along,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
“To Wimbledon. Do you feel fit enough? There may not be a scrap, but I rather imagine that her supreme and exalted Highness will die fighting.”
“Is Leslie there?”
Coldwell nodded.
A hundred yards short of May Towers the tender stopped and the little army of men got down. On the journey Coldwell had made his arrangements. Four of the detectives were to make their way to the back of the house; the remainder were to force the entrance. It was Coldwell who rang the bell. In his right hand he gripped an axe, ready to strike at the chain the moment the door was opened.
Standing behind him, Peter saw him stoop his head.
“Can you hear anything?” he whispered.
“No, sir.”
“Thought I heard a scream.”
He waited a few seconds longer, and then:
“Give me the crowbar.”
Somebody passed him up the long steel bar, and with a swing he drove the clawed ends between door and lintel. Again he struck, and this time had his purchase. Pulling back with all his strength, the door cracked open. Two blows from the axe broke the chain, and they streamed into the dark hall and up the stairs.
The squat Javanese stooped and lifted the girl without an effort, and as he did so the little men who stood around clapped their hands rhythmically and droned the marriage song of their class. Leslie heard and set her teeth, as she felt herself raised in the strong hands of this hideous little man.
She had a glimpse of Anita Bellini—the hate in her eyes made her shudder in spite of herself.
“Goodbye, little Maughan!” she mocked. “There is death at the end of this.”
And then she stopped, her eyes glaring towards the door.
“Stand fast, everybody! Tell these fellows not to move, Bellini!”
It was Coldwell’s voice. Leslie felt herself slipping from the encircling arms. Then suddenly somebody caught her, and she looked round into the haggard face of Peter Dawlish.
“No gunplay,” said Coldwell gently, “and there will be no trouble. I want you, Bellini; I suppose you are prepared for that?”
“I am called Princess Bellini,” she began.
“Whether you’re Princess Bellini or Annie Druze or Alice Druze is a matter of supreme indifference to me,” said Coldwell, as he caught her wrist. “But you have the distinction of being the first woman I’ve ever handcuffed.”
He snapped the cold circle about her wrist.
“But then, you see, most of the ladies I’ve pinched have been gentle little souls who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
She made no reply. That old look had come into her face again which Leslie had seen before.
Then Anita Bellini did an unexpectedly generous thing. She nodded to the wondering group of natives shepherded behind three armed detectives.
“These men have done no harm,” she said. “They have merely carried out my instructions in ignorance of the law.”
She said something in Javanese to the man who had held Leslie, and he grinned and answered in the same language.
“My head boy here”—she nodded to him—“will accept responsibility for the other natives.”
And then, with a sideways jerk of her head and a hard smile:
“Well, here is the end of the Druzes,” she said.
“Not quite.” Leslie’s quiet voice interrupted her. “Martha has still to be disposed of.”
There was anger, but there was fear also in Anita Bellini’s grimace.
“Martha? What do you mean—Martha?” she asked sharply. “I have not seen her for years.”
Leslie smiled.
“I saw her two days ago, so I have the advantage of you,” she said.
They waited only long enough for Leslie to gather a change of dress and a coat for the prisoner, and thereafter Anita Bellini went out of her life forever, except for the day when Leslie stood in the witness-box and testified against the monocled prisoner, who did not look at her but sat staring straight ahead at the scarlet-robed judge.
Before she collected the clothes she went in search of Elizabeth, and found her weeping in her bed in the little dressing-room, and persuaded her to dress. By the time the Princess was out of the house and on her way to Wimbledon police station, the child was arrayed in her rags. Leslie stood in the doorway looking at her, and she was very near to tears.
“Elizabeth, do you remember how you used to pretend you had all sorts of nice fathers?”
The child nodded and smiled.
“Well, I’m going to introduce you to a real one.”
“A real father?” asked the girl breathlessly. “My father?”
“And you’ll never guess who he is.”
Suddenly the child was clinging to her, her arms locked about her neck. Thus Peter found them, weeping together.
XXI
It was not often that Mrs. Donald Dawlish made a call at any hour of the day; the appearance in Berkeley Square of her big Rolls was something of an event. But at eleven o’clock at night …
“Mrs. Dawlish?” said Jane in wonder, when the footman came to her with the news. She had not seen the woman for two years. Indeed, Mrs. Dawlish’s attitude of late had been frankly antagonistic. “Ask her to come up, please.”
The woman strode into the room, patting her mop of untidy white hair into place. She wore the black which suited her better than any more vivid shade, and on her bosom blazed a diamond star which was just a little too large to be altogether ornamental.
“I suppose you’re surprised at my coming at this hour?” She dropped her shawl on the settee, and, walking to the fire, held out her hands to the blaze.
“I am—a little,” said Jane, wondering what was coming next. Nothing short of a catastrophe could have brought Peter’s mother in such circumstances.
“I’ve been a good friend of yours, Jane—in the past,” she began, and her look asked for confirmation; but Jane was silent. “There’s trouble, bad trouble, over that will of the old man’s,”
