A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

The one party to the conversation had “gentleman’s gentleman” written all over his manner and appearance. The deferential voice, the trick of lowering his eyes when he spoke, proclaimed the valet who had served in good families. He had not the smug pomposity of the butler nor the breezy open-air demeanour of the driver.

His companion was no other than our old friend the detective, who did not, like his companion, exhibit any signs of his calling, as far as appearance went; he might have been anything—respectable bookmaker, prosperous commercial traveller, well-to-do shopkeeper, whatever you pleased.

In the pursuit of his professional duties Lane penetrated into several circles, outside the higher ones. These he left to Sellars principally, although he had two other occasional assistants of the same class, but less zealous and capable. His object in coming to this quiet little place to-night was to extend his acquaintance, one formed a few nights previously, with the man who was drinking now at his expense, who rejoiced in the popular name of Simmons and was valet to Sir George Clayton-Brookes.

Lane was speaking in answer to some remarks just brought to a conclusion by the valet with the neat, respectable appearance and the low, deferential voice.

“And so you think of shifting. Well, it’s no use staying in a place that doesn’t square with your ideas of comfort.”

“That’s just it, Mr. Cox.” The detective had assumed this name for the purposes of the temporary friendship. “I knew after the first fortnight it wouldn’t suit me at all. But I’ve stayed nine months for reasons. It doesn’t do for a man with my record in good families to go chopping and changing every five minutes, it gets him a bad name.”

Lane signified his approval of this politic conduct, and noting that the valet’s glass was empty, hastened to have it refilled, a proceeding to which Mr. Simmons offered no objection. With his shrewd knowledge of men, his habit of drawing conclusions from small but infallible signs, the detective inclined to the belief that his new friend was an acquisitive kind of fellow, a man who would take all he could get and give as little as he could in return.

“Your health, Mr. Cox.” The man lifted his glass and looked appreciatively at his host, while he gave utterance to further thoughts of his master.

“I don’t say Sir George isn’t all right in the matter of family, although of course we know they’ve come down through his old father playing ducks and drakes with the property. But the truth is, a poor place doesn’t suit a man at my time of life, forty-five last birthday. Wages are nothing; it’s the pickings that enable a fellow to put by and start a snug little place of his own to keep him in his old age.”

A poor place, an absence of “pickings”! This confirmed the banker’s report. As a matter of fact, Lane did not want the banker’s report confirmed, he could rely on it as far as it went. He was on a much deeper game, and with that object he had sought the society of Mr. Simmons in the hope of finding him the sort of person who would help him to play it.