Chapter 32

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TO Peter Clifton, that afternoon and evening had had a delicate charm which no other day of his life had held. He and Jane had dined early, and at her request he had not dressed. He was learning a new Jane; something quizzical, something tantalising, something wholly feminine. A girl who could banter him with a solemn face and make him forget the tragic atmosphere in which he had been moving. A dozen times he had attempted to return to the ugly realities; a dozen times she had headed him off.

They were in the little library, Jane browsing from volume to volume. Presently she hesitated.

"Peter, would you mind very much if I asked you something?"

"Go ahead," he said lazily.

He sat, pipe in mouth, in a deep lounge chair, a book on his knees.

"Was your father a great scientist?"

"Why yes, I suppose he was," he said slowly. "You've found his book, have you? Rather a queer coincidence that---about forgers, isn't it? In his early youth he was a chemist. He discovered something or other---a new way of treating iron. I've only the vaguest idea about it; and that's how he made his fortune."

She turned over the pages and found the book uninteresting, as well it might be, for it was written in a dry technical way.

"Did you ever----" she hesitated to ask the question---"did you ever want to forge notes?"

"I? Good Lord, no! I should be scared to death."

He said this rather brusquely and tried to change the subject.

"But you do know how to engrave a note? I mean, you would know if you were put to it? It isn't so very difficult, is it?"

"Jane, my dear, let's talk about something else."

"Peter, my dear, I can't think of anything else to talk about."

He drew a deep sigh.

"Do you know how long we've been married?"

"A thousand years," she said. "I'm already a grey-haired old lady."

"I wonder if you know how many days?"

She thought and shivered. She had indeed lived a lifetime since she walked down the aisle upon his arm. He did not speak again for five minutes, and evidently had been thinking about the happening of the afternoon, for he asked:

"Do you suppose there was anything in what Donald said, in that offer of his for a hundred thousand pounds to make me completely happy?"

She smiled round at him.

"My dear, aren't you rather tired of spending a hundred thousand pounds on happiness?" And, when she saw his blank look: "That is exactly the amount you paid for me, my angel!"

He chuckled at this.

"And well worth it," he said. "You were a bargain, Jane. I wonder, if one could wake up and find that all this beastly business was a dream, whether a man like myself could really be happy with a girl like you?"

"Isn't it rather a question of whether a girl like me could be happy with a man like you?" she asked lightly. "I don't know. The fact is, Peter, you're rather too thrilling. I talk about being an old lady, but I really found a grey hair in my head this morning---or it looked grey."

She heard a sound in the hall.

"That's the post," she said, "and I'm tired of answering your begging letters."

She went out and came back with a bundle of letters, sorted them out on the table.

"They're all for you, I think," she said. "Mr. Peter Clifton . . . Mr. Peter Clifton . . . P. Clifton, Esq. . . . Peter Clifton, Esq.---and there's one for me."

She opened her eyes wide as she recognised the writing.

"From Donald. Can it be a wedding present?"

"Wells? What is he writing about?"

She slit open the flap of the envelope and took out another and read the superscription.

"This is terribly mysterious---'To go with my documents and not to be opened.'"

Under this was the name of a firm of lawyers known to her. Only for a moment did she hesitate. She knew well enough that the envelope had been wrongly addressed. She could not guess that before Donald had addressed it, and whilst yet his pen was flying over the surface, she filled his mind to the exclusion of all other matters.

She tore open the second envelope and removed its contents. It was a faded sheet of newspaper, worn and torn at the edges. It had been folded and unfolded so often that it was almost falling apart. At the top left-hand corner she saw a few lines in Wells's neat hand. He was a very methodical man, she remembered, and had the habit of documentation. Here he had written:

By a strange coincidence found some old books wrapped in this paper three weeks after P.'s first consultation.
"The Cumberland Herald, 1898."

"Cumberland!" exclaimed Peter. "That's queer. My mother used to live in Cumberland. In fact we're Cumberland people."

There was nothing very exciting on the first sheet. She turned it over and immediately saw the principal item: it was a column in the centre of the page.

Death of Mr. Alexander Welerson.

He heard her exclamation, and, jumping up from his chair, came to her side.

"We regret to announce the death of Mr. Alexander Welerson, for many years a resident of Carlisle, and one of the foremost chemists of his age. Mr. Welerson had just returned from Switzerland, where he had been staying, and was driving into Carlisle when his horse took fright, overturning his dog-cart into a ditch. Mr. Welerson received injuries from which he did not recover. The deceased gentleman leaves a wife and a baby, three months old. By a curious coincidence, his namesake cousin, Mr. Alexander Welerson, the well-known iron founder of Middlesbrough, was staying with Mr. Welerson at the time of his death. It is believed that the late Mr. Welerson had been engaged in experiments in connection with the smelting of this metal."

They looked at one another in silence.

"1900. Impossible!"

"When did your father die?" asked Jane in a voice little above a whisper.

"In 1919, the last year of the war."

She pointed to the woodcut that had been inserted above the notice. It was a poorly drawn picture of a man of thirty, clean-shaven, and even the artist had not succeeded in coarsening the rather delicate features.

"Is that your father?"

He shook his head.

"No," he said, "not the father I knew---what is it pinned to the paper?"

She turned the page over and saw what she had not noticed on the first inspection, a small paragraph pinned to one corner of the larger sheet. It had no date, but the paragraph told its own story. It was headed:

"No Change of Name

"Mrs. Alexander Welerson, widow of the late Peter Clifton Welerson, was married quietly on Tuesday to her cousin who bears the same name. Mr. and Mrs. Welerson left for the Riviera with the bride's seven-months-old baby."

"Well?" Jane's voice was unsteady. "Do you know this precious secret that Wells was going to sell you for a hundred thousand?"

He was stunned, almost incapable of thinking.

"I don't understand it," he muttered. "They were married in November, 1900. I was born in March, 1900---the 27th."

The hand that held the paper trembled.

"Peter"---her voice was husky---"you're the son of the first Alexander---not the man who died in Broadmoor. That is what he meant when he said he hoped you would be worthy of your illustrious father. O God, how wonderful!"

Then, before she realised what was happening, she was in his arms. He held her close to him, cheek to cheek, scarcely daring to breathe.

"How wonderful!" she sobbed. "Peter, don't you understand----"

They heard Marjorie's shrill voice calling, and he had scarcely time to put her away from him when Marjorie came flying into the room. Jane gazed at her in amazement.

"Marjorie! I thought you were in Germany----"

But Marjorie did not hear; she had eyes only for Peter; came running across to him and gripped him by the arm.

"Peter!" she gasped. "The police! They are at my house---Bourke!"

She was so breathless that she could hardly articulate.

"Where is your husband?" asked Peter quickly.

She shook her head.

"I don't know---he went out---I was going myself when---Bourke came! He searched everything. And they're looking for Donald. And oh, Peter, do you know what Bourke said?" She put her hand on her breast as though to gain command of herself. "He took me into the dining-room and shut the door, and he said: 'Do you know the Clever One? If you do, tell him we're coming for him to-night.'"

Jane looked from one to the other. Why had Bourke uttered this warning? She felt her heart sinking and took a grip of herself. She must have faith---she must.

"Why did he want to warn him?"

"How can I tell?" snapped Marjorie. "Do you know who it is, Peter? Is it Donald? It is awful! There are two detectives in the house going through all Donald's papers, and they say all the stations are watched. What am I to do?"

"You can stay here," said Jane authoritatively.

The woman shook her head.

"No, I can't stay here. Something might happen to Donald and I want to be----" She was at a loss for the right word. "I want to know. I can help him. He doesn't know that I can. I've been terribly disloyal to him, Jane."

She was on the point of collapse. Jane put her arm round her waist and led her into the bedroom. A glass of water seemed all that was sufficient to bring Marjorie back to normal volubility. Jane returned to find her husband.

"She's all right----" she began, as she went into the library, but Peter was not there.

She went into his room; it was empty. And then she heard the slam of the front door and flew out into the hall, to meet the butler.

"Mr. Clifton has just gone out. I don't know what's the matter with him, ma'am; he hasn't taken a coat or hat or anything."

Running past him, Jane threw open the door and flew down the stairs. By the time she reached the street Peter had disappeared.

She walked quickly down into Pall Mall. There was a cab rank near the Carlton Club, and he might have taken a taxi from there. Her surmise proved accurate. She saw the cab driving away before she reached the main thoroughfare. The next taxi-man on duty lifted his finger questioningly, and she beckoned him to her.

"Will you tell me where he went---the gentleman who took that taxi?"

"Knowlby Street, miss."

The name seemed familiar, but for a moment she could not place it.

"It's up by Marylebone Lane. The driver didn't know it and asked me; that's why I can tell you."

Knowlby Street---the place where Blonberg had his office. Now she knew!

"Come back to 175, Carlton House Terrace," she said, "and wait for me."

She almost ran back to the flat, found a coat and hat and took her bag from the dressing-table. Marjorie was sitting in a chair, weeping noisily, and interjecting questions which were more or less unintelligible to Jane in her state of mind.

She got down to the door; the taxi was standing.

"The end of Knowlby Street. Pull up there and wait."

At this hour of the night Knowlby Street presented a deserted appearance. Would there be anybody in this office block to admit her, she wondered. They were certain to have a caretaker, and she seemed to remember that offices had a staff of cleaners working all night.

She walked down the street quickly and paused at the door. What excuse had she? Impulse had led her to an act of stupidity. Nevertheless she pressed the only bell she found. That beneath the name of Blonberg she could not see. She rang again, without result, and then, turning her head, she saw another cab stop at the end of the street and a huge bulk of a woman alight. It was Mrs. Untersohn.

Jane flew down the street and took shelter in the first convenient doorway.