“I am afraid there is a mistake,” she said. “I didn’t send for you.”
“No, miss, we’ve brought the goods.”
“The goods?” she said puzzled.
He led the way to the door.
Lining one side of the street and stretching from the house to the corner of Gaspard Place were ten motor lorries.
“Here’s the name.”
He turned the card over.
“Lord Flanborough, Felton House, Grosvenor Avenue,” said the man reading it over her shoulder.
“Have you any letter?”
“No, miss, these are all the instructions I had. I was told to bring the chemicals to his lordship and ask for you.”
“Chemicals?” she said.
Her father had followed her to the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“This man has brought some chemicals for you.”
“Oh, nonsense, there is some mistake,” said Lord Flanborough. “I am not a chemist.”
He went down the steps with the girl to the first lorry. She looked inside and apparently it was empty.
“What is it you have brought?” she asked in surprise.
“There they are, miss, on the floor.”
And then she saw a number of packages wrapped in sacking.
“They’re pretty heavy,” said the man, “considering their size.”
She reached out her hand and tried to draw one toward her. It defied her efforts. Lord Flanborough tried and succeeded in moving it. Something in its shape startled him.
“Have you a knife?” he asked the man.
The contractor produced a big clasp knife and opened it.
“Be careful, my lord,” he warned, “they’re dangerous—”
But Lord Flanborough had ripped the canvas package and exposed a dull yellow ingot. He dropped the knife and stepped back.
“How many wagons are there?” he asked huskily.
“Ten, sir. They’ve all got the same number of packages—and are we to take them to the Docks?”
Lord Flanborough made a rapid calculation.
“Take them into the basement and put them into the coal cellar,” he said and went up the steps two at a time and back into his study.
Sir Ralph was still waiting. The rudeness of his host neither increased nor decreased his irritation.
Lord Flanborough stepped up to him briskly.
“Look here, Sapson,” he said. “What responsibility do you want me to bear in the matter of this gold?”
“I want you to bear half.”
“I will do more than that,” said his lordship. “I will assume the whole responsibility for two hundred thousand pounds.”
Ralph swung round.
“You will?” he said incredulously.
“I will.”
“Done,” said Sir Ralph and pulled out his cheque book.
He wrote quickly and nervously but quite legibly enough and handed the slip to Lord Flanborough, what time his lordship was writing with more leisure but no less excitement on the other side of the table.
“There’s your cheque,” said Sir Ralph.
“And there’s my note freeing you from responsibility,” said his lordship.
“I am sorry I have been so unpleasant,” said the baronet wiping his steaming brow, “but you will understand.”
“I quite understand,” said Lord Flanborough.
“Business is business,” said Ralph.
“Business is business,” repeated his lordship and folding the cheque slipped it into his pocket.
XVI
On the Unmorality of Professional Thieves
The main building of what had once been Boltover’s Cement Works consisted of four high walls and a slate roof. Here had stood the wash mills and the revolving knives which had reduced the clay and mud from the nearby river into slurry. Leading therefrom was the heating chamber and the kiln house. There was no trace of mill, though the kilns still stood.
All the machinery had been removed, the concrete floor strengthened and the only engine visible was a great Atlantic locomotive which had stood with steam up day and night before the wreckage of two trucks. In each of these was a rough circular hole and the blistered paint and the drops of metal which hung upon the edge or had trickled down its blackened side, told of the terrific heat which had been employed to break through the steel walls.
Near one wall were a number of small packages neatly stitched in canvas and ready for removal, and on these sat Mr. Mulberry, the benignity of whose countenance was somewhat discounted by the fact that a loaded rifle lay across his knees. Leading from the main building was a small office approached through a steel door and in this were seated the seven guiding spirits of the great raid, Francis Stockmar, Gregori, Colonel Westhanger, Colling Jacques, Thomas Stockmar, Mr. Cunningham and Kate.
Gregori was talking. He leant across the table, his hands lightly clasped, his head on one side turned to the girl who sat opposite to him and a little to his right.
“I think, Kate, we finish here,” he was saying. “Crime Street is getting a little too warm.”
“I didn’t expect you to lose your nerve,” she said.
“I’m not losing my nerve,” he said with a scowl. “I am afraid of losing my life, if you want to know the truth. We are watched all the time. They know you are out of town and are searching for you.”
“They found me,” said the girl coolly. “I am staying at Brighton.”
“We have made a big haul and it will take us a year to get rid of it,” Gregori went on, “but when we have got rid of it, we shall have enough to settle down.”
“But why do you want to settle down?” she asked.
“My dear Kate,” said her uncle querulously, “don’t ask absurd questions. You know there is no reason in the world why we should not settle down. We have enough money.”
“Exactly what do you mean by settling down?” she insisted. “I am not being sarcastic. I merely want information. You have taught me that it is the game and not the prize that is worth while. That has been my life’s teaching. Why, you told me if you were a millionaire,” she looked at her uncle under her bent brows, “nothing would induce you to be ‘dull and honest.’ Those were your words.”
“My dear child,” said Colonel Westhanger, “I have told you
