Li
At nine o’clock that morning Mr. Fabrian Gilder had risen intending to make a hurried visit to his country cottage. The newspapers had been full of the Chelford tragedy, but no mention had been made of the fact that Thomas had been Mr. Gilder’s guest. Such a happening, he realized, being an intelligent man, must necessarily upset all arrangements and plans that the girl had made.
There was a lot about Fabrian Gilder that was admirable. To his servants he was a kind master; to all who knew him superficially, an excellent and even a generous friend. He was in truth no worse than the average man in point of desires, a little better in his fairness of dealing. Arthur Gwyn had been legitimate prey, but he had, he thought, treated him with scrupulous fairness. He had succeeded, by the exploitation of the lawyer’s weakness, in amassing a very considerable fortune; but then, the City of London, and, for the matter of that, the City of New York, was filled with rich men who had founded their houses upon the cupidity or folly of men who were now almost penniless.
He glanced at the morning papers. There was nothing new reported from Chelford, except the little interview that one reporter had had with Dick, and that paragraph was, in many ways, very comforting to Gilder, for it explained why the girl—and then his eye caught sight of a line.
Mr. Alford said he had asked Miss Leslie Gwyn to stay at Fossaway Manor whilst her brother was abroad.…
Abroad? He frowned. If Arthur Gwyn had gone abroad he must have left very suddenly. He had seen him only a day or two before. But perhaps that was one of Dick Alford’s lies to save the girl’s face. Still, it was disquieting.
He was pondering this matter when the maid brought him his morning letters, and the first he saw was one in a well-known hand. It was from Leslie. He tore it open with trembling fingers, took out the half sheet of paper and read the few lines. He read it not once but many times. So that was that! She had changed her mind.
It did not occur to him that she had not made any promise but he was so sure of her, so satisfied in his mind that she would agree to his proposal, that he felt he had been tricked.
When the shock had worn off, his anger and resentment grew. Very well: if she could not keep her promise, he at least would keep his. He understood now, he thought. Arthur had bolted, and there was no necessity for the girl to make her sacrifice. He had been fooled, tricked. He pushed the chair back from the table, leaving his breakfast untouched, and, going into his library, turned the handle of the combination and pulled open the door of the safe with a savage jerk. There was the letter, all ready to post, and at the sight of it his heart grew hard and sour.
He took out the letter, made to tear it into fragments, and then remembered that inside was a blank check. He pulled out the sheet of notepaper and felt for the little pink slip that in his magnificence he had signed with a complacent flourish. It was not there!
Gilder peered into the envelope with a frown. Gone! He searched the safe: it might have fallen out, though how, he could not imagine; but there was no sign of the check. He unlocked his drawer and took out his check-book. There was the counterfoil, and written across it, “For Leslie——.” He had intended to show her that counterfoil one of these days, when she felt more kindly toward him.
With his head in his hands he tried to remember when he had last seen the check, and then he recalled that it was on the morning Arthur Gwyn had called to see him. At that thought he went white. Surely he had closed the safe? Again he struggled to remember, minute by minute, that fateful morning. He had been looking at the letter, he had put it away, he had closed the door, and then—the telephone bell had rung and he had forgotten to fasten the safe!
He pulled the ’phone toward him now and called furiously for a number. It was twenty past nine; most of the staff of the bank would be there. When the call was answered:
“I am Mr. Gilder,” he said quickly. “Is the manager there?… No? Then the sub-manager will do. It is very urgent.”
He waited whilst the clerk went to investigate. Presently he heard the voice of a man he knew—the manager himself.
“I just came in at this moment. Is anything wrong?”
“Fletcher, do you remember my telling you that I should be sending down a check for fifty thousand pounds and asking you to honour it?”
“Yes; I honoured it.”
For a second Gilder was speechless.
“You honoured it? Who presented the check?”
“Arthur Gwyn—it was made out in his favour. I notified you last night; didn’t you get my letter?”
“I haven’t opened all my post yet,” said Gilder steadily. “Thank you.”
He hung up the receiver, breathing heavily. For now he remembered clearly every event of the morning: the coming of Arthur Gwyn, and his seemingly absurd proposal, that Gilder should write a note expressing his willingness to lend the money. That was the trick of it! Not only had Arthur got the fifty thousand, but with that letter he had a complete answer to any charge of fraud.
He sat with clasped hands, every vein on his forehead swollen, and murder in his heart. Tricked! And she should know. She had been a party to the fraud—unwittingly, perhaps, but nevertheless a party. She must have told him of this money.…
Whatever else he was, Fabrian Gilder had the gift of clear thinking. Five minutes’ riotous fury, and he was his cold self again. Of course she couldn’t have helped in the fraud. It was the accident of leaving the safe unlocked, and Arthur Gwyn’s known inquisitiveness—he could never resist reading even Gilder’s private letters; Arthur had no sense of other people’s privacy.
What could he do now? He thought the matter out. He must tell the girl, and perhaps she would regard herself as being under an obligation to him. If she had any sense of honour she must fulfil her promise, whatever she had written in her letter that morning.
He telephoned for his car to be brought round from the garage, and came back to his breakfast table and made an attempt to eat.
He would try Leslie first, telling her nothing about the letter he had given to her brother, and threaten him with a warrant for fraud. Perhaps this strengthened rather than weakened his position. He grew cheerful as the thought took shape.
He passed slowly out of London, for all the streets in the metropolis seemed to be “up,” and at last struck the open country, avoiding the main roads and taking a more circuitous route which would bring him to the main Sussex road between Dorking and Horsham. With a clear road before him, he sent his car at full speed. He was not well acquainted with the road, but he knew that he joined the old Roman “street” at a gentle angle, and he did not slow down as he approached the principal thoroughfare.
Left of him, on the London side, the road was clear; to the right, the view was a little obstructed. He sounded his klaxon and came out on to the main thoroughfare at thirty miles an hour.
He saw the car just in time, jammed on his brakes, and threw the machine into reverse. The big car ahead of him skidded round; he caught one malevolent gleam from Dick Alford’s eyes, and then he saw the bag and, driving to the side of the road, picked it up. His first inclination was to leave it; he had no particular desire to help the Second Son; but there are certain innate decencies to be observed by motorists, even though they loathe each other, and he picked the little grip from the sidewalk and threw it into the back of his car.
As he did so, it opened, and, turning to fasten it, he saw something that made him change his mind. Getting out of the car, he lifted the bag to the sidewalk, opened it wide and pulled out—the sombre habit and cowl of the Black Abbot!