AS Jennie anticipated, Mr. Thomas Glynne was very much pleased when he saw the growing intimacy between his son and ward.
“It isn’t so hard, Clarence, to come out from London every night and go back every morning as it used to be, is it?”
Clarence, with his usual lack of tact, put his foot in it again. “Well, governor, forty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at.”
“You’re right, Clarence, and I’m glad to see that you are growing sensible. I have often wondered how you could be so foolish on a certain point and yet be a son of mine.”
Clarence had to tell Bertha his secret—that he was married and that it was his inventive little wife who had thought out a plan by which her escape from Buckholme could be managed successfully.
“Oh, I shall be so pleased to meet her,” said Bertha. “You say she is a little woman.”
“Oh, yes,” said Clarence, with enthusiasm. “I can take her right in my arms and carry her about. I don’t think she weighs more than eight stone and perhaps not so much. But she wants to know what part of Paris your friend lives in. She has been there and knows the city pretty well.”
“I will let her have my new friend’s letter,” said Bertha. “It will be safer with her anyway. Here it is,” and she took it from her bosom. “You may read it.”
Clarence availed himself of her permission.
“MY DEAR LITTLE GIRL:
“I have just learned in a roundabout way, which I shall not take time to explain here, that the only child of one who was a very dear friend of mine years ago, Mr. Oscar Renville, is living in England and is a ward of Mr. Thomas Glynne, of Buckholme, in Berkshire. I do not remember your Christian name and for that reason have directed this letter simply to Miss Renville. I remember you when you were a little girl; that is why I began this letter as I have. When your father used to bring you to see me, he called you by some pet name which might or might not have been your own, but which, as I said before, I have forgotten. I have not forgotten you, however. I am a widow with one son, nearly twenty-two. I was married when quite young and am not yet forty; so you see I am not yet an old woman and shall not be such bad company, after all, for a young girl of eighteen. I shall be delighted to have you come to Paris and stay with me as long as your guardian will allow. On the outside it is a beautiful city; under the crust there is a great deal of wickedness, but we shall keep away from that and look for the goodness which I know, too, is here. Give my kindest regards to Mr. Glynne, and tell him that I shall be pleased to have him as my guest, for I presume he will accompany you to Paris. I live at Number 22, Rue St. Francis. Every cab-driver in Paris knows where it is and there are many people in this city who know your loving friend,
“MARIE, Countess Mont d’Oro.”
The transportation of Bertha’s wardrobe from Buckholme to Clarence’s lodgings was carried on without causing any suspicion in the mind of the elder Mr. Glynne and a day was fixed for her departure.
Jennie suggested that Mr. De Vinne should know that Bertha was going to Paris.
“He may be there now,” said her husband. “I have seen no notice in the paper of his brother’s funeral. I will send him a wire; that’s the best way.”
Clarence’s message was short and to the point; it contained but five words: “Are you there? Something important.”
The return message was equally concise. “Funeral day after to-morrow. Write me.”
“Quite a coincidence,” said Jennie. “Mr. De Vinne’s brother is to be buried on the day we have fixed for our departure. I do not think it is best for him to meet Bertha while she is with us. She had to know our secret, but it is not necessary that any more should be acquainted with it just at present. You write to him to-day that we are going, and he will probably lose no time in taking the most direct course by way of Dover and Calais.”
“Yes,” said Clarence, “but how are you going?”
“We shall leave London day after to-morrow by a very early train. I’ve got it all figured out. Bertha is coming to the city to-morrow. Of course your father will fume and fret and wonder why you two do not return home, but knowing that she is with you will relieve his anxiety to a great extent.”
“If he thought I had eloped with her, he would be perfectly satisfied,” said Clarence.
“No doubt, but will he be so well satisfied when he learns that she has eloped with your wife? But you must not tell him. Give me your solemn promise that you will not. To-morrow night I will tell you the route which I have laid out for our flight.”
Clarence’s conversation with his wife had taken place in the afternoon and he returned to Buckholme that evening. He was more attentive than ever to Bertha. The senior Mr. Glynne sought the seclusion of his library. With his hands clasped behind him, he walked briskly up and down the long apartment, smiling to himself and repeating in an undertone: “That boy of mine is no fool after all; he knows on which side his bread is buttered.”
The next morning Clarence said: “Governor, things are moving along faster than I expected. I have not proposed yet. I think it is best not to hurry the matter; but I would like to have Bertha go to London with me, as I saw a beautiful locket in a jeweller’s window in Regent Street. I am going to take her to look at it and if she is delighted with it, as I know she will be, I am going to buy it for her. You know there is nothing pleases a woman as much as——” He came near saying “having her own way,” but he bethought himself in time and finished with, “having a nice present from a young man.”
The senior Mr. Glynne rubbed his hands together gleefully, and patted his son approvingly on the shoulder. His next move was to take out his pocket-book, from which he extracted a ten-pound note which he passed to Clarence, saying: “Get something pretty nice.”
The evening of that day found Bertha an occupant of the room which had remained so long empty in Mrs. Liloquist’s lodging-house. She had been introduced as Miss Mary Barker, a cousin of Mr. Glynne’s, who was on the way to see her brother who lived in Berwick-on-Tweed, near the Scottish border.
“It’s a long journey,” said Mrs. Glynne, “and I am going with her. I told Mr. Potts—he is the head man at the place where I work—that I was about tired out and needed a little vacation. So you see, as the old proverb says, I am going to kill two birds with one stone.”
Mrs. Liloquist always subdued her curiosity if she was confided in. It was the safest way to deal with her, for if subjected to a severe cross-examination, which was quite possible, she might tell more than was wished, or than was desirable under the circumstances.
When Jennie and her husband were alone in their own room, Jennie remarked: “I think I have satisfied Mrs. Liloquist. I don’t think she will ask you any questions.”
“But you have not satisfied my curiosity,” said Clarence. “Now is the accepted time; where are you going—I mean, which way are you going to Paris?”
“Well, sit down,” said Jennie, “and I will tell you the whole story. It is quite a romance. I was born, as you know, in the little coast town of Pagham in Sussex. The people make their living by fishing, and my father was a fisherman. You know, both my father and mother are dead. If I had not been left an orphan, I should not have come to London. I am glad I did so, for if I had not I should never have met you; but that’s not to the point. I have been down to Pagham. There are a good many living there now who knew my father. One of his best friends was Captain Jacob Carder, who now owns one of the best fishing vessels in the town. Now, perhaps, you guess my plan.
“Instead of taking Bertha to Paris by way of Dover and Calais, we shall go down to Pagham and Captain Carder will take us over to France in his schooner. He says he will land us at a place where it will be easy for us to get a train for Paris. Your father, of course, will ask you where Bertha is. You must say you don’t know. In such cases, white lies are allowable. I cannot tell you what to say to your father, because, if I do, I know you will get it all mixed up. Whatever you say you must invent on the spur of the moment and then stick to it.”
By half-past six the next morning Mrs. Glynne and Bertha were on their way to Pagham. Clarence did not accompany them to the station.
“You had better not,” said Jennie. “Your father will put detectives on your track, and one of them will be sure to be at the station and recognise you. I am not so well known and for that reason will be able to escape observation. I shouldn’t wonder if your father came to London by the first train from Buckholme.”
Clarence arrived at his office an hour earlier than usual. His wife’s surmise had been correct—his father was there before him.
“Are you married, Clarence?” was the first question.
“Why, no,” said the son, taken aback by the question.
“Well, then, where’s Bertha? What do you mean by bringing her to the city in such a manner? Where is she, I say?”
The crucial moment had come. Clarence had thought of a dozen different explanations to give, but the one he did offer was, as his wife had advised, the inspiration of the moment.
“I could not help it,” he said. “It was all over in a minute. It must have been prearranged between them.”
“Who are you talking about?” his father thundered.
“Why, Jack De Vinne and Bertha,” said Clarence. “We drove down to Regent Street in a four-wheeler. She was delighted with the locket and I bought it for her. I took your ten pounds for the chain. As we came out of the store, who should I see standing on the sidewalk but Jack De Vinne. Bertha got into the carriage and I was on the point of following her, when she exclaimed that she had left her parasol on the showcase. I went back for it, but when I came out of the store the carriage was gone.”
“What an infernal fool you were, Clarence.”
“Why, governor, how could I help it? I had no idea that Jack De Vinne was in London. I should have as soon expected to see the man in the moon. I supposed that he was at Noxton Hall. I understood his brother was to be buried yesterday. The paper said so.”
Mr. Glynne, Sr., seemed staggered by the information. “You never do anything, Clarence, that you don’t make a mess of it. When you get married I have no doubt you will make a mistake and get the wrong woman.”
“I may be a big fool, as you say, but I don’t think I shall make that mistake.”
“Where do you think they have gone?” asked Mr. Glynne.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Clarence.
“Well, I have,” said his father.
“Where?” asked Clarence.
“I shall confide my suspicions to the detectives. I do not think you are a safe person for confidences. I think you had better stay in London, Clarence, until I go back to Buckholme. I will let you know when I do so.”
“Well, that’s over,” said Clarence to himself after his father had left the room. “I have told more lies in the last fifteen minutes than I ever told before in all my life; but Jennie said it was all right, and she knows. I shall have to go up to the house this noon. Bertha had so many things that she could not take with her, and Jennie made me promise to pack them up and send them after her.”
It was a huge package when complete and much too heavy for Clarence to carry under his arm. He discovered this fact after he had walked a short distance from his lodgings, and calling a cab, told the driver to take him to the railway parcel office.
Twenty minutes later, a round-faced, smoothly shaven man applied the knocker so vigorously that Mrs. Liloquist’s face was rosy-red when she opened the door.
“Why, sir, you must be in a great hurry to make such a racket. Now, what do you want, sir?”
“Is there a young man living here named Glynne?”
“Why, yes, sir,” said Mrs. Liloquist. “He just went out. He had a big bundle, and I told him it was too heavy for him to carry.”
“How soon is he coming back?”
“Well, really, I don’t know. He usually comes home about six o’clock, but his wife’s gone away with a friend and perhaps he’ll stay out later. Men usually do when their wives are away.”
“Did you say his wife had gone away? I don’t think he can be the one I want to find. I am his uncle. I have been in South Africa and have just got back to London. The young man I want to find is named Clarence Glynne.”
“Well, that’s his name,” said Mrs. Liloquist, “and his wife’s name is Jennie. They have been living here with me nearly two years.”
“And you say that she has gone away with a friend?”
“Yes, a young lady named Mary Barker, who lives in Devonshire. Miss Barker’s brother lives in Berwick-on-Tweed and Mrs. Glynne has gone there with her.”
“What sort of a looking person is this Miss Barker?”
“Oh, she’s just the beautifullest girl I ever saw. I have read in books about young ladies with blue eyes and golden hair, but she’s the first one I ever saw that matched the story book.”
“Well,” said the gentleman, “I will come around again about six o’clock. Much obliged to you, ma’am, for your information. I hope my nephew has got a good wife.”
“Oh, she’s a fine woman,” said Mrs. Liloquist, “and very clever. She works every day at something or other. She’s the kind of a wife for a poor man, and I judge from what your nephew says that they would have hard work getting along if she didn’t do something to help.”
Clarence was surprised late that afternoon to have another visit from his father. Mr. Glynne, Sr., was accompanied by a stalwart gentleman with a marked professional aspect.
“So you’ve got back again, father,” said Clarence, not suspecting the turn which affairs had taken. “Have you found any clue?”
“Plenty of them,” said his father, sternly. “I know the whole business. Come into the private office with me, and you, Mr. Lake,” he said, turning to his companion, “sit down and wait for us.”
When they were alone together the expression on Mr. Thomas Glynne’s face changed from one of assumed serenity to one of the deepest malignity.
“Clarence Glynne,” said his father, “I told you this morning that you were an infernal fool; now I know that you are an infernal liar. You have been deceiving me for years. You are a married man, and that is the reason why you have refused to marry my ward.”
Clarence sank into a chair. Oh, if Jennie were only there to help him!
“I am going to make short work of this. Do you know who that man is in the other room?”
Clarence shook his head.
“He is an officer from Scotland Yard. I have lodged a complaint against you for kidnapping my ward. Although you are my son, I shall proceed against you as though you were an utter stranger.”
A rat will turn when it is cornered, and Clarence felt that he must do something, or within an hour he would be behind the bars.
“Do you mean to have me arrested, father?”
“Certainly, I do, and if the case goes against you, you won’t see that wife of yours for years to come.”
The words stung Clarence. Separated from Jennie! No, he could not stand that.
“Father, under the circumstances, I consider myself absolved from the promise I made you to keep silent about Bertha’s property. If I am taken to court I shall tell the whole story.”
“I had supposed that you would,” said his father. “Your landlady said that Bertha, or Miss Barker, as she called her, had gone up North, but I know better. She is gone to Paris to meet Jack De Vinne. You can get ready to go with the officer. We will be back for you in five minutes.”
Clarence did not know what to do. He had lost his hold over his father. His threat to tell the truth about Bertha’s fortune had failed to produce any effect upon him.
During the five minutes which had been allowed him, Clarence did nothing but think in an aimless sort of a way of a dozen impossible courses of action.
The door of the private office opened and his father entered with Mr. Lake.
“I have decided,” said his father, “not to give you into custody until to-morrow morning. I wish you to accompany me to Buckholme. Mr. Lake will go with us and keep you under surveillance.”
Clarence did not wish to sit and look at the stern face of his father, nor the enigmatical one of Mr. Lake; nor did he wish to feel that their eyes were fastened upon him, reading, perhaps, his inmost thoughts. He sank into a corner of the carriage and closed his eyes, to all appearances in a state of apathetic indifference. But his mind was busy. What was his father about to do? Would he throw him out of the business? Well, if he did, he made up his mind that he could make a living some way. To be sure, he had been provided with everything that he needed at Buckholme, but his personal share of the profits of the firm of Walmonth & Company had been very small. It was for that reason that his wife had obtained employment. As to his arrest for kidnapping, he cared but little.
Before they reached Maidenhead the tumult of his feelings had subsided, and when they entered the house the servants could not have told from his appearance that anything had happened.
His father shut himself in the library. Clarence went to the billiard room to play a game of pool solitaire, but when he found that he was closely followed by Mr. Lake, he invited him to join in the game and found him no mean antagonist. But while he played, outwardly calm, his thoughts were busy, and during the evening he asked himself a hundred times: “Have they reached Paris in safety?”