“As I say …” began Lord Flanborough again.
“For Heaven’s sake,” interrupted Michael, “don’t tell me that you haven’t missed things! I tell you Kate would not touch a pin in your house. In the first place she is a well-off woman. Why in Heaven’s name should she bother her head about your belongings? I don’t suppose, if she had the full run of your house, she could find £100 worth of realisable property! No, that is not why Kate came to you. How long has she been here?”
“Nearly a month,” said Lord Flanborough, a little annoyed that the result of his own private investigations had so utterly failed to impress a representative of Scotland Yard.
“What work has she been doing?”
“Ordinary secretarial work for Moya. She came with excellent letters of recommendation.”
“You can forget those,” interrupted Michael testily; “the gentleman who wrote them lives at No. 9, Crime Street and his name is Millet.”
“She was a wonderful typist,” began his lordship, who was seeking about in his own mind for some excuse which would explain why he had been deceived.
“That I also know. She is, as you say, one of the fastest typists in the world. In fact, no aspect of her education has been neglected. She speaks five languages and read French fluently when she was nine. What work has she done for you?”
Lord Flanborough considered for a while.
“She has copied a few letters and reports.”
“What kind of reports?”
“Reports from our South African companies. You see, Michael, I still retain the direction of most of my old interests.”
“Were they very important—the reports, I mean?”
“Yes and no,” replied Lord Flanborough slowly; “they were merely records of output, cost of production and projected shipments.”
“On what other work was she employed?”
“Let me think,” said Lord Flanborough.
“I am letting you!” replied Michael tartly. “You used to have a very private code-book if I remember rightly.”
“That is true,” said Lord Flanborough, “but of course, she did not see that.”
“Where did you keep it?”
“In my desk,” said Lord Flanborough.
“Is it possible that she could have seen it?”
“It is possible, but wholly impossible that she could have copied it.”
“For how long a time together was she left alone?”
“Five minutes was the longest period she was left in the library alone,” said his lordship after consideration.
Michael fingered his chin.
“Did you ever come into the library and find her in a semi-fainting condition?” he asked.
Lord Flanborough looked at him with open-mouthed amazement.
“Did she tell you?”
Michael shook his head.
“No, she has told me nothing. I gather from your question that there was such an occurrence?”
“It is remarkable that you should ask the question,” said his lordship. “I did come in one morning to find the poor girl—er, the wretched girl, in a semi-fainting condition.”
“And you went out and got her a glass of water and sent for your housekeeper, I suppose,” said Michael, his lip curling.
“Yes, I did,” admitted his lordship.
“Which means, in plain language,” smiled Michael, “that you surprised her in the act of examining some of your private documents and that whilst you were getting the water and calling assistance, she was replacing whatever she was looking at where she had found it. Did she on any other occasion draw your attention, on your entering the room, to some peculiar circumstance, such as one of the pictures not hanging straight or a broken vase?”
Again Lord Flanborough looked astounded.
“Yes, once she pointed to the china cupboard and asked me who cracked the glass. As a matter of fact, the glass was not cracked at all,” he explained.
“But you went over and examined it?”
“Naturally,” said his lordship.
“That was exactly the same trick,” said Michael; “whilst you were making your inspection she was able to replace any documents she had been examining and close the drawer—if they were in a drawer. Now, I wonder what her game is?”
“You don’t suggest,” began his lordship in alarm, “that she is scheming to rob me?”
“I hope not,” said Michael gravely; “from the idea of your being robbed, the imagination reels.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so sarcastic. I am afraid you have never quite forgiven Moya—”
“I bless Moya every time I think of her,” said Michael quickly; “she rendered me the greatest service that one human being can render to another, when she refused me. I hope to do better than Moya. As Moya’s father, you utter a pained protest. I know, I know,” said Michael, and he waved his hand cheerfully from the door.
III
Other Eyes Watched Michael
Michael Pretherston was back at the Yard in time to catch his chief before he departed for the day.
Commissioner T. B. Smith, to whose recommendation this young scion of the aristocracy owed his promotion, was not helpful.
“If we took Kate on any charge it would not prevent the swindle going forward,” he said; “you may be sure she has mobilized all her resources and her little army is ready to the last button of the last gaiter. There is supposed to be a fellow watching her all the time, but he seems to have missed her rather cleverly. Anyway, I don’t think there is much to be gained from shadowing her, because she knows she is under observation and acts accordingly. But I have a word of advice to you, my young Hibernian friend, and that is to keep a sharp eye on your own precious life. Kate is afraid of you.”
“She didn’t give me that impression this afternoon,” said Michael sadly.
“Kate is a bluff; you mustn’t take any notice of what she says. You accept a friend’s advice and
