A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

Simmons opened the door; Lane saw that the man was in a state of considerable excitement. At the query of: Was his master at home? the valet smiled broadly:

“Come in, Mr. Lane, and welcome. No, Sir George isn’t at home nor likely to be. Something’s up, sir; we always had an idea he was a ‘fishy’ customer, didn’t we?”

The detective went with Simmons into the room where he had conducted his investigations on that memorable evening. It was in a state of confusion; the key of the safe into which he would have so dearly loved to peep on that occasion was in the door. Lane unlocked it and swung it open, to find the safe was empty. The drawers of the writing-table were all unlocked, some of them partly open, and in them nothing of value, only a few old letters and unimportant memoranda. The fireplace was littered with the ashes of burned papers.

“What’s the meaning of it all?” asked Lane with a frown. He had a pretty shrewd premonition that his visit had been paid too late, that there was very small chance of recovering any of his plunder from this wily scoundrel.

It appeared that early the previous morning, young Archie Brookes had called and the two men were closeted together for over a couple of hours. Simmons had followed his usual tactics of applying his ear to the keyhole, but they were on their guard, and spoke in such low tones that he could not catch a word. After the young man had left, Sir George came out and ordered the valet to fill a good-sized portmanteau with clothes; he had in his hand a bag which, no doubt, contained all the money and everything of portable value in the flat.

He explained briefly that he was going abroad for some months, and had given his solicitors instructions to dispose of the furniture and contents, and sub-let the flat. He handed Simmons a written character and—wonderful to relate—gave him three months’ wages in lieu of notice. A taxi was called, and the chauffeur given instructions to drive to Charing Cross station.

It was pretty evident that Sir George, to use the valet’s graphic expression, had “done a bunk.” Simmons had not noticed the number of the taxi, but even if he had taken this precaution, it was not likely to have given Lane much assistance. A practised campaigner like this well-born rogue would be clever enough to conceal his tracks; he had already his plans cut and dried to evade pursuit.

The valet had come round this morning to clear up things a bit, and after he had done that he was to post his own key to Sir George’s solicitors.

The scoundrel had enjoyed a long start, and by now was clear away. It was not worth while wasting time over him. Mr. Morrice had shown by his manner that he was sick and tired of the whole matter, and wished to shut it out of his recollection. To a wealthy man such as he, the recovery of a portion of the stolen money was a matter of comparative unimportance.

So Lane decided that he would go no further in what might be termed the side-issue of the Deanery Street mystery. But second thoughts induced him to look up his old friend MacKenzie at Scotland Yard.