“Very well,” Douglas conceded, “if you put it that way I suppose it can be done. I’ll regard it partly as a medical case: Kleptomania—its Cause, Detection, and Cure. That makes it seem a bit more respectable. Frankly, Conway, it’s not a job I like very much.”
“I don’t revel in it,” Westenhanger admitted, gruffly. “But I’m going to see it through, if I can. Somebody ought to pay for the trouble they’ve caused.”
Douglas looked away.
“Well,” he said, at last, “I suppose if it had been Cynthia instead of Eileen I’d be inclined to go in with both feet. I see your point, Conway. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Westenhanger made no reply.
When he considered the matter later on, Conway Westenhanger had to admit to himself that he had embarked upon a forlorn hope. Nothing but pure luck was likely to bring the thing to success. And the chances against any result seemed tremendous. He could not dog his quarry continuously for any length of time, since that would inevitably lead to a disclosure of his intentions. For a large part of the day and during most of the night Mrs. Caistor Scorton would be outside his sphere of observation, and that left him very little chance of success. The possibility of enlisting assistance he rejected immediately. None of the party was likely to be useful. Eileen was the only one whom he might have approached in the matter and the relations between her and Mrs. Caistor Scorton made her worse than useless for that particular purpose, apart from all other objections to the idea. Westenhanger resigned himself to waiting for the help of chance, with a full appreciation of the odds against success.
That night he and Douglas sat up later than usual. All the other guests had gone earlier to bed and the house was dark. As the two men came out into the corridor they found the door of Rollo Dangerfield’s study wide open, and a beam of light shone from it across the floor.
“The old man’s on guard again,” Westenhanger hazarded to Douglas in a low voice. “He’s having a worrying time, I’m afraid. Hard lines having a thing like that on one’s shoulders.”
But when they passed the open door they found Eric on the watch instead of his uncle. He wished them good-night as they went by, but showed no desire for their company.
“They’re taking it in turns, evidently,” Douglas guessed as they went up the stairs. “Ah! perhaps that accounts for Eric being about in the small hours, that night of the storm. It may have been his turn for duty. We don’t know how long this affair has been going on.”