VII
The first thing Clement Seadon did was to give way to one of those outbursts of anger that, in time, bring calmness. They had scored over him—they had tricked him, these blackguards. They had dealt him a very damaging blow.
Then from this anger against their very definite triumph, his cooling brain turned to the matter which had helped them to score that point. The explanation he found was perfectly simple. That letter had been stolen from his despatch case. He was not of the type that leaves letters lying about, particularly lawyers’ letters. Theft, that was the solution. Some one had been through his effects. They had found this letter, appreciated its worth as a means of alienating Heloise. They had been clever, as clever as he thought they were, and had struck at him at the psychological moment.
Who had been the thief? That, again, was easy. Who else but the rascally steward, a fellow in their pay, a member of the gang, who had the right to come and go in all the cabins. And, now that the thing was brought acutely to his mind, he recalled seeing the rogue hanging about in the gallery, conspicuously near his door. He remembered him, not merely because of his redoubtably evil face, but also because he was so resolutely dirty.... His should-be white steward’s jacket had a beastly and disfiguring stain of yellow—rust, perhaps—up the left arm and shoulder.
Yes, that criminal-looking steward was the thief—but what matter? That part was passed and over. Could the thing be remedied? It looked black. It looked as though Heloise Reys would for the future hold him at arm’s length—only she must not. For her own sake, if not for his, he must prevent her holding him at arm’s length. He must speak with her.
It would be difficult. He might see and be able to speak to her to-night, after dinner, but he was not hopeful. She would evade him—Neuburg and the Gorgon would see to that. To-morrow—less hope to-morrow. The hustle and bustle of leaving the ship at Quebec would give no opportunity. At Quebec ... he gained a ray of comfort. At Quebec, yes, it might be done. He knew that she was to stay at the Château Frontenac for at least two days. She had told him she had rooms reserved there.... And so had he. Well, if he could not see her, even if he had to force himself upon her, during those two days, then he wasn’t the man he thought he was.
Quebec would be his salvation. Quebec would see him right himself with her, put him on a footing which would enable him better to counteract the plans of her enemies. He felt more sanguine.
More than that, he felt his old capacity and alertness come back to him.
It was as well it did. He had full need of those qualities.
For the gang was not leaving things to chance. Mr. Neuburg, that master mind, was aware that Quebec would give him opportunities for regaining ground with Heloise. Mr. Neuburg meant to prevent that.
As the great liner pushed up the vast river towards that city of beauty and history, that on its great cliff hangs like a fairy citadel over the shining waters, Mr. Neuburg acted. He devised an acute, a cunning and a beastly plan for getting Clement Seadon out of the way.
As the big vessel was wharping into the dockside, Clement Seadon, who had remained on deck to the last possible moment in the hope of seeing Heloise Reys, went below. He went below disconsolately to gather together his traps, and to prepare for his effort in Quebec.
He went below, past the busy stewards working in their shirt-sleeves among the baggage, past their glory hole, full of their clothes and their intimate litter, past the many scattered trunks and suitcases ready to be taken off, past the wholesale reminders of voyages ended, and into his own cabin.
His own kit was, of course, already packed. A good traveler, he got through that swiftly and early. Now he gathered together his stick and his mackintosh and his hat ready for departure. He sat down on his bunk and felt for his cigarette case.
His cigarette case indicated the state of mind he was in; it was empty. For a moment, and in sheer desperation, he felt that he could not be bothered to unstrap his suitcase and dive to its bottom for smoking materials. Then he drove his melancholy from him, pulled the heavy leather case towards him.
In thirty seconds his hand encountered something hard and edgy. Something strange to his groping fingers.... He tugged it out....
In the palm of his hand lay a thing that glittered and flashed. A thing of immense worth—a woman’s tiara.
A woman’s diamond tiara in his suitcase. It was incredible.
Then Clement Seadon jumped alertly to his feet. He saw the meaning of that tiara at once. It had been put there so that he should be branded as a thief, that he—by gad!—that he should be arrested, be kept under lock and key while Heloise Reys was in Quebec.
He saw it all. The devils, the clever devils, this was their plan—Neuburg’s plan—to get him out of the way.
What should he do? The thing was immensely valuable. Return it?... No, couldn’t risk wandering about with that in his possession, for anybody to fling accusations. Oh, but there was something quite simple ... there always is. The purser ... he’d run right along to the purser, hand it to him, say that he had found it. He’d do it now. He guessed he’d have to be quick. Neuburg and his gang would see to it that the loss of that tiara did not go long undiscovered.
He almost ran along the gallery towards the purser’s office. He did not get far. Before he came to the accommodation stairs that led up to the smoking saloon, stairs that stood between him and the purser, he heard an excited babble of voices coming down those stairs.
Yes, there was a definite excitement in them. Men’s voices raised in protest and advice. A woman’s voice, hysterical and accusative.... A woman who had a grievance.
The hunt was up.... They were after that tiara.
It was absolutely impossible to go on. They were bound to see him ... and he had that damnable tiara on him.... He glanced about wildly.... There seemed no way of escape, and the voices were very near.... They were about to come round the corner.... Like a fox bolting to earth, Clement Seadon dived into the empty glory hole. He crouched behind the door amid the hanging coats.... The voices passed him talking at a babble.... He heard them drifting along the gallery towards his cabin.... He stood up, scrutinizing his lair carefully. No other way out except by the door he had come in. He waited a few moments. Then he stepped out quietly, and walked a little way towards the purser’s office, he must not on any account show haste. He heard voices behind him, he faced about for a moment and looked.... It was a crucial moment. As he looked, the captain of the ship walked out from the alleyway in which his cabin stood, looked along the gallery towards him ... saw him.
He saw him and immediately called out, “Hello, Seadon” (genial Captain Heavy was an old friend), “I say, you’re the man we want. Would you mind coming along here for a moment, my good chap?”
Clement Seadon, with a throbbing heart, went along. He went to his own cabin. There seemed to be a crowd of people in that cabin. In the blur which his painful sensations brought to him, Clement could only distinguish one excited and angry lady and a steward—the evil little steward. He turned his face quickly away from these. He looked at Captain Heavy. He meant to say something to Heavy, but his mouth was parched.
Captain Heavy, his good-tempered face frowning, understood that inquiring look. “Yes, it does seem an idiot mob to thrust into a man’s cabin, old chap. None of my doing. I—well, look here, it’s a rotten and unwarrantable thing, but—but you see this lady has lost a valuable piece of jewelry ... a diamond tiara.... She says it has been stolen....”
“It has been stolen,” snapped the lady.
“Well—she says it has been stolen. And one of the stewards declares he knows who did it. In fact—in fact, old man, he has the—the effrontery to say that it was—you.”
“Well,” said Clement, in a voice whose evenness surprised him.
“Well—well,” said the distressed captain. “Well—they came along to see for themselves—to—to search.”