XXXVIII
Passing down Wardour Street that afternoon, Dick Alford had seen a familiar face. A man came out of a shop with a bundle under his arm, and, recognizing the young man, turned on his tracks and walked rapidly away. Dick grinned; there was no mistaking Thomas, and he wondered what was the nature of his purchase.
He glanced at the window of the store and was puzzled; for Thomas did not seem the kind of man who would indulge in the frivolities which were exhibited behind the plate glass.
He was not in any very good spirits. He had made two calls, and on each occasion had suffered a gentle rebuff. He was going now to see his last hope. The big City bank was closed when he arrived, but a porter admitted him to the presence of the old man who had been his father’s best friend. The war had turned plain Mr. Jarvis, a country banker of the ’eighties, into Lord Clanfield, the head of the greatest banking corporation in Europe.
He gave Dick a hearty welcome, for the boy had been a favourite of his.
“Sit ye down, Dick. What has brought you to this square mile of trouble?”
Plainly and briefly Dick stated his business, and Lord Clanfield frowned.
“Fifty thousand pounds, my dear boy! Do you want it for yourself?”
“No, I want it for a very dear friend of mine.” It required an effort to describe Arthur in these flattering terms. “He has got into a scrape.”
His lordship shook his head.
“It couldn’t be done, Dick. If it was for you, to get you out of a scrape—but then, you’re not the kind of lad who’d ever get into one—I’d give it to you out of my own pocket.”
“You couldn’t lend it to me on my personal security?”
The banker smiled.
“Lending it to you, Dick, would be giving it to you! What chance have you of repaying fifty thousand pounds? A second son! Harry is marrying this year, and there will be an heir to the estate next year! No, no, old boy, it would be impossible.”
Then, in his desperation, Dick Alford told the story, suppressing only the names. The old man listened with a grave face.
“He has got to go through with it, Dick,” he said. “If you get him out of this trouble he’ll probably get into worse. The poor little girl—I’m sorry for her. Of course, you’re speaking about Gwyn? No, no, you needn’t be afraid, I sha’n’t say a word. But I’ve had my suspicions for a long time. Let him take his medicine, Dick, and do what you can for the girl. Once that fellow is behind bars and the whole wretched trouble is at an end, come to me for any money you want—for the girl. I knew her father and her uncle, and the great-uncle who left her a lot of money, which I suppose has gone up in smoke with the rest, and I’m willing to go a long way to help her. But you mustn’t pledge your credit, Dick, for that worthless man.”
Dick came away from the City, weary and sick at heart, too dispirited even to interview the fourth man he had intended to see. His only hope now was his brother, and he knew Harry’s obstinacy too well to expect help from that quarter, which could not even be asked for except by betraying as the borrower the man for whom he had conceived an unreasoning hatred.
Monkey Puttler met him at the station and had a piece of news to impart.
“That bird Thomas is still in the neighbourhood,” he said. “He’s been living in Gilder’s cottage.”
“Indeed?” said Dick. He was really not concerned with Thomas or Gilder or anything in the wide world except the heartbreak that awaited Leslie Gwyn.
“Gilder’s been down to-day. Ascot’s all over, isn’t it? Anyway, he was dressed like a doctor in new clothes—top hat and everything.”
“Where has he been?” asked Dick, with sudden interest.
“I don’t know. I guess he went to call on Mr. Gwyn. I saw his car coming out of the drive, and he looked very pleased with himself. And I’ve found the rifle.”
“Where did you find it?” asked Dick quickly.
“Up against the river. Someone must have thrown it in, but didn’t throw hard enough. There were three or four cartridges still in the magazine—a sporting Lee-Enfield. They’ve tried the knife and they’ve tried the gun; I wonder what new one they’ll put out on us.”
“Have you seen Harry?”
“Saw him this afternoon,” said the cheerful Puttler. “He worked that chesil gag on me, but I didn’t give him my views.”
In spite of his anxiety, Dick smiled.
“Have you any views on chesils?”
“Yes, sir,” said the other confidently. “He thinks chesil is an instrument. He doesn’t seem to realize that in Elizabethan times ‘chesil’ meant ‘gravel’ or ‘shingle.’”
Dick stopped and stared at him.
“Is that so?” he asked.
“Ever heard of a place called Chelsea?” said the informative Mr. Puttler. “Do you know what ‘Chelsea’ means? It means ‘Chesil Ey’ or Shingle Island. Why, the word isn’t even obsolete; you’ll find it in any dictionary. The new ‘chesil’ that is spoken of in the Diary is a load of shingle he got from Brighthelmstone. That’s Brighton. Now, why did the old bird want shingle? Obviously to put in some kind of concrete or mortar.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t start on the treasure, or I shall go mad!” groaned Dick. “At any rate, you don’t believe in its existence, thank goodness!”
“I do,” said the surprising man emphatically. “I’m as sure that those thousand bars of gold are in existence as I’m certain you and I are walking up this road. Your brother’s got a book down that shows all Queen Elizabeth’s private accounts; there’s the million she stole from the Spanish ships that put into an English port when they were on their way to Holland; there’s the money she got from Drake and the other seagoing burglars; but there’s not a hint of the Chelford gold.”
“Then where is it?” asked Dick in exasperation.
“Ask me before I go,” replied the other cryptically.