The Duke of York’s Steps

by

Henry Wade

New York

Payson & Clarke Ltd

Copyright, 1929, by Henry Wade

Contents

CHAPTER I.
The Two Bankers

“A glass of the Dow for Mr. Hessel, please, Rogers, and I’ll have brown sherry.”

The wine waiter retired to execute the order and Sir Garth Fratten turned to his guest.

“Too much vintage port last night, I’m afraid, Leo. Old Grendonian dinner. ‘Hair of the dog that bit you’ may be all right with champagne, but port—no.”

His companion laughed.

“I should have thought you were too old a Grendonian to fall into that trap,” he said. “Where was it? The Grandleigh? They generally give you pretty good stuff there. I hate those functions myself—not that there are any Old-Boy dinners of the school I went to.”

There was a trace of bitterness in Hessel’s voice, but his companion ignored it.

“I don’t like them myself,” he said. “I haven’t been to one for years, but this was a ter-centenary affair and I rather had to go. The wine was all right—it was the speeches that were the trouble—they kept at it till nearly eleven. I got mine over early—and shortly—but some of them took the opportunity to let off steam. Pretty indifferent steam most of it was, too. One has to drink something—toasts and general boredom. I couldn’t drink the brandy—1812 on the bottle and 1912 inside it—the usual Napoleon ramp. But the Cockburn was genuine stuff—’96. Must have got outside the best part of a bottle—not wise in these soft days. Have some coffee, old man. Shall we have it here? The guests’ smoking-room is sure to be packed now, and it’s after two—we can smoke in here.”

The two men were sitting at a small corner table in the handsome dining-room of the City Constitutional Club, of which the elder, Sir Garth Fratten, was a member. Chairman of the well-known “family” bank which bears his name, Sir Garth occupied an assured position in the esteem, not only of this exclusive club, but of the “City” generally. Still well on the right side of seventy, the banker was commonly regarded as being at the peak of a long and honourable financial career. He had kept his mind abreast of the rapidly changing conditions of post-war finance, and this faculty, coupled with his great practical knowledge and experience, caused his opinion and his approval to be valued very highly, not only by individuals, but even at times by the Treasury. He had been knighted for his services, financial and otherwise, to the country in the Great War and it was thought not unlikely that his specialized knowledge might lead him to a seat in the Upper House.

His companion, Leopold Hessel, was about eight years his junior, though his scanty hair was at least as grey as Fratten’s—probably because his path in life had been less smooth. His skin, however, was clean and, apart from the eyes, unlined, and his figure slim. He had the dark eyes and sensitive hands, but none of the more exaggerated features of his race, and the charm of his appearance was confirmed by the fact of his close friendship with a man of Sir Garth Fratten’s discrimination. This friendship had been of untold value to Hessel in the war, when the position of men of even remote German descent had been extremely difficult. Fratten, however, had insisted upon Hessel retaining his position upon the directorate of the bank and this action by so prominent a citizen, being regarded as a certificate of Hessel’s patriotism, had saved him the worst of the ignominies that were the lot of many less fortunate than himself. None the less, the scar of those harrowing years remained and was probably reflected in the conversation that was now taking place.

“I wish you’d let me put you up for this place, Leo,” Fratten was saying. “I hate having to treat you as a guest—you know what I mean—and take you into that poky little smoking-room on the rare occasions when you consent to lunch with me.”

Hessel smiled rather bitterly and shook his head.

“It’s good of you, Fratten,” he said. “In many ways I’d like to belong here, but . . .” he paused, as if seeking how best to express a refusal that might appear ungracious. “Perhaps I haven’t the courage to risk a licking now,” he concluded.

Fratten’s gesture of denial was emphatic.

“You’re not still thinking of that damned war business, are you? That’s all forgotten long ago—not that it ever applied to you. Or is it Wendheim and Lemuels? They weren’t blackballed because they were . . . because of their religion. It was simply that this club has always asked for other qualifications besides wealth and business success. That ass Erdlingham didn’t realize it, or they’d got the whip hand of him or something—he’s in all their things—and he put them up and of course they just got pilled—not the sort we want here. You are—you’d get in without the least doubt.”

Hessel’s hand lightly touched his companion’s sleeve. “You are a good friend, Fratten,” he said, “a good deal better than I deserve. Don’t you see that that’s one reason why I won’t risk this—you know what your position would be if it didn’t come off. No, don’t go on. I’m more grateful than I can say, but I shall not change my mind.”

Fratten sighed.

“All right, Leo,” he said. “I’m really sorry, but I respect your attitude. It’s more my loss than yours, anyway. Come on; we must be off. I’ve got a Hospital Board meeting at three and I must look in at the bank first.”

The two men made their way out into the wide hall, with its handsome double staircase, recovered their overcoats (it was October) and hats from the pegs where they had hung them, and were soon in the street.

As they turned into Cornhill Fratten threw away the cigar that he had been smoking, and cleared his throat.

“I’ve got something in the way of a confession to make to you, Leo,” he said. “I ought to have made it before, but I’m not sure that I’m not rather ashamed of myself. I told you that I’d been to an old Grendonian dinner last night. Well, I met a fellow there who was a great friend of mine at school, though I hadn’t seen him since. He was a soldier, did damn well in the war, commanded a division in France towards the end and a district in India afterwards. I don’t think he’d ever lived in London till he retired a couple of years ago—anyhow we’d never met. When he left the army he didn’t settle down in the country to grow moss and grouse at the Government like most of them do. He . . . are you listening, old chap?”

Hessel had been looking straight in front of him with an expression that suggested that his thoughts might be on some other and more important subject, but he emphatically repudiated the implied charge of inattention.

“Yes, yes, of course I am. Go on—interesting career. Who is he? What does he do?”

Sir Garth, as other and lesser men, liked to tell his story in his own way. He paid no attention to the questions.

“As I was saying, he didn’t settle down to a life of promenades and old ladies at Cheltenham; he set up as a bold bad company promoter—and with no mean success.”

“Who is he?—What’s his name?” repeated Hessel.

“Lorne. Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, K.C.B., K.C. This and K.C. That. He asked me to . . .”

But his companion had stopped.

“Look here, Fratten,” he said. “What is this? What is the confession? I can’t hear you in this racket. Come down here.”

He took his companion’s arm and pulled him into an alley-way that led through towards Lombard Street. It was comparatively quiet after the roar of the traffic in Cornhill.

“What on earth is this story?” repeated Hessel, with a note of agitation in his voice.

“I’ll tell you if you’ll give me half a chance. He’s Chairman of a Finance Company—the Victory Finance Company, I think he called it. . . . He has asked me to join his Board. He thinks my name would be a help—I suppose it would. Apparently they’re thinking of extending their scope; they . . .”

“But you didn’t consent?” ejaculated Hessel sharply.

“I warned you it was a confession, Leo. I’d had, as I told you at the club just now, more port than was strictly wise. I wasn’t quite so—so guarded as I usually am—we were very great friends at school. I was a fool, I suppose, but I promised him I’d look into the thing—he’s sending me the details tonight.”

Hessel’s usually calm face was flushed. He was evidently deeply moved by Sir Garth’s information.

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “You can’t do that. Your doctor . . . You told us—the Board—only two or three meetings ago that your doctor had absolutely ordered you to do less work! Your heart . . . you said your heart was unsound! You’ve gone off the Board of the British Tradings—I thought you were going off your Hospital Board too. Besides, this Victory Trust; what is it? You can’t—with your reputation—you can’t go on to the Board of a tin-pot company like that! It’s probably not sound. It’s . . .”

“Ah, that’s another point,” interrupted Fratten. “If it’s not sound, of course I can’t go into it. Apart from my own reputation it wouldn’t be fair to the public; they might take my name—for what it’s worth—as a guarantee. That I shall go into very carefully before I consent. As to health, what you say is quite true. My ‘tragic aneurism’ or whatever it is old Spavage calls it, is rather serious. I don’t deny that I’m worried about it. It isn’t heart really, you know—I only call it that because it sounds prettier. But after all, this Victory Finance Company ought not to mean much work. I gather that it’s my name and perhaps some general advice on the financial side of the business that Lorne wants.”

Hessel had by this time calmed down and he now spoke quietly, though none the less definitely.

“I think you are misleading yourself, Fratten. You tell me that this company contemplates extending its scope. I know you well enough to be certain that if you go on to this Board and it starts developing fresh fields you will throw your whole energy into the work. You may deceive yourself about that but not me. Now, apart from your own point of view, I want to put two others to you—your family’s and the bank’s. If you break down, if you over-strain yourself and collapse—that’s what happens, you know—is that going to be pleasant for Inez and Ryland?”

“It certainly wouldn’t spoil Ryland’s sleep,” answered Fratten bitterly. “I can’t imagine anything suiting him better.”

“Oh, come, Fratten; you’re unjust to the boy. But Inez—you know well enough that she adores you. I should say that you were the centre of her whole universe. Can’t you think of her? Doesn’t she come before this school friend?—a friend who means so much to you that you haven’t seen him, and probably haven’t thought of him, for forty years.”

The banker’s expression had softened at the mention of his daughter but he made no comment. Hessel renewed his attack from a fresh direction.

“And the bank,” he said. “What about that? Thousands of people depend upon the success of Fratten’s Bank. All your shareholders—it’s been your policy—our policy—for generations to distribute the shares widely and in small holdings—mostly to small people. Small tradesmen, single ladies, retired soldiers and sailors, your own employees. Many of them have all their savings in Fratten’s Bank. You know well enough that the position of the private banks is anything but secure in these days—half a slip, and the ‘big five’ swallow them. We’re doing well now, we’re even prosperous—why?—because of you. Your knowledge, your experience, your flair—you are the bank, the rest of us are dummies. I don’t plead for myself, but my own position, my financial and social position are entirely dependent upon Fratten’s.”

Sir Garth shook his head impatiently.

“You exaggerate,” he said. “The Board is perfectly capable of running the bank without me—probably better. You yourself are worth in fact, though possibly not in the eyes of the public, every bit as much to the welfare of the bank as I am. You may have less experience but you have a quicker, a more acute, financial brain than I ever had and I’m past my prime—I’m depreciating in value every day. No, no, Leo; you’ve over-stated your case, and that’s fatal. I’ll take care, of course, but that appeal ad misericordiam—weeping widows and trusting orphans—is all bunkum. Anyway I must get along now—I can’t stand here arguing all day.”

Hessel’s expression was grim.

“You’ve definitely decided?” he asked.

“If it’s sound, yes. I’ve taken a leaf out of your book, Leo, about the club. I’m grateful to you for your consideration, for your advice, much of it very sound, but—I shan’t change my mind.”

He moved off down the alley, and Hessel, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him in silence. They turned into Lombard Street, both evidently wrapped in deep and probably anxious thought—so much so that Sir Garth, omitting for once the fixed habit of years, stepped into the roadway to cross the street without glancing over his shoulder at the traffic. As he did so, a motor-bicycle combination swooped from behind a van straight at him. With a violent start, Fratten awoke to his danger and stepped back on to the pavement, untouched, while the cyclist, with a glance back to see that all was well, sputtered on his way.

But though there had been no collision, all was very far from being well. The banker took two or three shaky steps forward and then tottered to the inner side of the pavement and leant, gasping, against the wall. His face was very pale, and he pressed his hand against his chest.

A crowd had gathered at the first sight of the unusual and now pressed closely round the sick man, adding its heedless quota to his distress. Hessel, who had come quickly to his companion’s side, did his best to drive off the sensation-vultures, but it was not till a majestic City policeman appeared that their victim was given a chance to breathe in comfort. After loosening his collar, the constable and Hessel guided Fratten into the office outside which the mishap had occurred. Quickly recovering himself and declining the manager’s offer to send for some brandy, Sir Garth brushed aside the constable’s desire to trace the motor-cyclist.

“No, no. No need to make a fuss,” he said. “It was as much my fault as his, and anyway you people have got more important work to do than that. I’m quite all right now; it would have been nothing if I hadn’t happened to have a dicky heart. I’d like a taxi though. I shan’t come to the bank now, Leo; it’s getting late. Ask Ruslett to send me round the papers about that Hungarian issue to my house. I shall be there by five.”

“But you’re going straight home, aren’t you?” exclaimed Hessel.

“No, I told you I’d got a Hospital Board this afternoon. It’s nearly three now.”

“But good heavens, man, are you out of your wits today? You’ve had a severe shock. You must get straight to bed and send for your doctor.”

“Rubbish. I’m quite all right now. I must go to this Board meeting—I’m in the Chair and I’ve got to report on an amalgamation scheme. Besides, if I’m ill, what better place to go to than a hospital? They’ve even got a mortuary I believe, if the worst comes to the worst!”

Fratten laughed at his companion’s harassed expression and took his arm.

“Now then, lead me out to the ambulance, old man,” he said.

Hessel watched his friend drive off in the taxi, and then turned and walked slowly off towards the bank, an anxious and very thoughtful expression on his face.

The police-constable established himself against a convenient wall, took out his note-book and wetted his pencil.

“At 2.45 p. m., I . . .”

CHAPTER II.
At Queen Anne’s Gate

At half past four on the same afternoon, Inez Fratten walked into the morning-room of her father’s big house in Queen Anne’s Gate, pulled off her soft hat and threw it on to a chair, shook her hair loose, and picked up a telephone.

“Wilton 0550 . . . Is that 27 Gr . . . Oh Jill! Inez speaking. Jill darling, come and dine with us tonight and play Bridge. Ryland’s dining in, as he calls it, for once in a blue moon. I’m so anxious that one of his dangerous tastes should have the best and brightest home influence to distract him from—et cetera, et cetera,—you know—sweet young English girlhood and all the rest of it—you’re just exactly it—with a small ‘i’. Yes, Golpin, I’ll have it in here. It’s all right, darling, I’m talking about tea. I say, did you see Billie last night? She was with that awful Hicking man again—you know, the pineapple planter or whatever it is they make fortunes out of in Borneo or New Guinea or somewhere. Billie’s simply fascinated with him because he’s got a ruby tooth—she follows him about everywhere and says awful things to make him laugh—he thinks he’s made a frightful conquest. They were at the Pink Lizard last night, but you may have left. Who was that exquisite young thing you’d got in tow? No—really—I thought he was a pet. Well, you’re coming, aren’t you? If you want a cocktail you must have it at home because father’s joined an anti-cocktail league or made a corner in Marsala or something. So long, my Jill. Eight o’clock—don’t be late, because we won’t wait. Poitry.”

Inez put down the telephone and walked across to the fireplace. There was a small Chippendale mirror above it and she was just tall enough to see into it while she ran her fingers through the soft waves of her brown hair—peculiarly golden-brown, lighter than auburn, but in no sense red. A shade darker were the low, straight eyebrows which crowned a pair of the coolest, clearest grey eyes in the world—eyes that looked at you so steadily and calmly that you felt instinctively: “lying is going to be an uncomfortable job here.” For classic loveliness her chin was perhaps a thought too firm, her lips not quite full enough, but when she smiled there was a bewitching droop at the corners of her mouth that relieved it of any suspicion of hardness. Altogether it was a face that not only caught your eye but took your heart and gave it a little shake each time you looked at it.

“Mr. Ryland told you he’d be in to dinner, didn’t he, Golpin?”

The pale smooth-faced butler, who was making mysterious passes over a tea-table with a pair of over-fed hands, indicated in a gentle falsetto that such was indeed the case.

“We shall be four altogether; Miss Jerrand is coming. Oh, I say, take that ghastly green cake away and bring some honey and a loaf of brown bread, etc. I’m hungry. And you’d better tell Mr. Mangane that tea’s ready—not that he’s likely to want any.”

But in this respect Inez appeared to be wrong. She had hardly helped herself to butter, honey, and a thick slice of brown bread when the door opened and her father’s secretary walked into the room. Laurence Mangane had only taken up the post a month or so ago and as he did not as a rule dine with the family—Sir Garth liked to be really alone when he was not entertaining—Inez had seen very little of him. He seemed presentable enough, she thought, as he walked quietly across the room and dropped into a chair beside her. He was rather tall and dark, with a thin black moustache that followed the line of his upper lip in the modern heroic manner.

“Afternoon, Mr. Mangane. Strong, weak, sugar, milk? I thought you didn’t like tea.”

“I don’t. Weak, sugar, no milk, please.”

Inez’s hand, waving the Queen Anne teapot, paused above a pale-green cup.

“If you don’t like it, why on earth do you . . . ?”

Mangane smiled.

“Because I want some tea,” he said.

Inez looked at him for a moment, the shadow of a frown flickering across her face. Then, with a shrug:

“Distinction’s a bit too subtle for me. Anyhow, help yourself. Is father being kind to you?”

“He’s being wonderfully patient. It must be infernally trying to a busy man to have to explain what he’s talking about.”

“But you’ve had financial training, haven’t you? Father said you’d been with Sir John Kinnick. I thought you probably knew all about it.”

“I thought so too; it’s been a thoroughly healthy and humiliating experience for me to realize that I don’t. Your father’s in a class by himself, so far as my experience has taken me up to now. He sees things from an entirely different point of view—a sort of financial fourth dimension.”

Appreciation of her father, if Mangane had known it—and perhaps he did at least guess—was the surest way to win Inez’s own approval. It was quite evident that she regarded her father with anything but the tolerant contempt which many of her contemporaries thought it amusing to adopt towards their parents. Sir Garth was a man whom it was possible, and even reasonable, to admire, even if he did happen to be one’s own father. Playing upon this easy string, Mangane had no difficulty in justifying his self-sacrifice in the matter of tea-drinking. He was even contemplating another cup when the spell was broken by the abrupt appearance of a Third Player. The door into the hall opened suddenly and a young man slipped into the room, closing the door behind him with exaggerated silence.

“Ry!” exclaimed Inez. “What on earth are you trying to do?”

Ryland tip-toed across the room with long strides and whispered hoarsely in his sister’s ear.

“Is the Old Gentleman, your father, to house, maiden?”

“No, you idiot; of course he isn’t at this time of night. He does some work.”

“Cruel, fair. But, oh Lord, I breathe again. A bowl of milk or I die.”

Ryland slid into the big chair beside his sister and with one arm squeezed her to him. Mangane, watching in some amazement, had difficulty in repressing a stab of jealousy at sight of the flush of pleasure on the girl’s face. Presumably, this must be Ryland Fratten, her half-brother; there was nothing to worry about.

“Ry, have you met Mr. Mangane? This is my brother, Mr. Mangane.”

“Steady. Half-brother; give the devil his due.”

Mangane nodded in acknowledgment of the introduction, but Ryland struggled to his feet, walked round the tea-table, and held out his hand.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said. “You’re obviously human. Dune was a machine—and I never found the right butter to put into it. I want all the human beings I can get at headquarters.”

The charm of his smile, rather than the flippant words, melted the slight chill in the secretary’s manner and for a few minutes he remained talking to Inez, while Ryland sat on the sofa, eating chocolate cake and muttering to himself.

“Mangane. Permangane. What play does that remind me of? Oh, I know: Potash and Perlmutter.”

Mangane laughed and rose to his feet.

“You’ve been studying Mr. Pelman,” he said. “Well, I must go and earn my keep. Thank you so much, Miss Fratten.”

When he had gone, Inez turned to her brother.

“Anything the matter?” she asked.

He was silent for a minute, staring at the fire. He looked very slim and young in his well-cut blue suit, but there were dark shadows under his eyes and his skin did not look healthy.

“Why do you ask that?” he said at last.

“Why are you dining here tonight?”

“Is it as bad as all that?—Do I only dine here when something’s the matter?”

She nodded.

“That’s about what it amounts to.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he agreed with a sigh. “And so there is—something the matter.”

“What?” asked Inez, with her accustomed directness. Before he could answer the butler appeared, saying that Mr. Hessel would like to see Miss Fratten if she was not engaged.

“Plagues of his Israel!” muttered Ryland angrily. “Who wouldn’t be a Pharaoh?—only I’d have done the job thoroughly.”

Inez glared at him and told Golpin to show Mr. Hessel in. Fortunately for Ryland there was no time for her to tell him what she evidently thought of him before Hessel appeared in the doorway. With a sulky scowl on his face, Ryland muttered some sort of greeting and was about to edge his way out of the room when Hessel stopped him.

“Don’t go, Ryland,” he said. “I’d like you to hear what I’ve got to say, as well as Inez.”

With none too good a grace Ryland complied. Inez, with unerring instinct, went straight to the point.

“Is anything the matter with father?”

Hessel nodded.

“It’s about that—no, no, my dear, there’s nothing immediately serious,” he interposed hurriedly, seeing the look of almost terrified anxiety on the girl’s face. “He’s quite all right. But something serious will happen if you don’t both help me. How much has he told you about himself?”

“Nothing,” said Inez. “What do you mean? Tell me quickly please.”

“Hasn’t he told you that his doctor has reported badly on his heart?”

“No, not a word. Is it—is he dangerously ill?”

“Not immediately, no. But he will have to take great care. Surely he must have told you he was giving up a lot of his work?”

“Yes, he did,” replied Inez. “But he said it was because he thought he’d earned a little peace and quiet.”

“I see. So you really know nothing. I suppose I’m betraying a confidence, but you’ve got to know now. His heart is in a really bad condition—I don’t know the technical terms, but it is a case of disease. His doctor has told him definitely that he must avoid all strain or undue excitement. Now what do you think he’s done? He’s promised, or practically promised, some ridiculous school friend to go into a gimcrack business with him that will bother him and upset him and do more harm than all the safe, well-oiled work he’s giving up.”

Hessel proceeded to outline the conversation he had had with Sir Garth that afternoon. Inez listened with close attention, occasionally asking a question that showed the clearness of her intellect. Ryland remained silent, but there was a look of uneasiness on his face that first puzzled and then comforted Inez. In spite of all the hard things that he said about their father, she felt that her brother really loved him and that this look of anxiety revealed the true state of his feelings.

“That’s all serious enough,” continued Hessel. “But something that happened this afternoon makes it worse. He had a shock—a motor-bicycle nearly knocked him over—and he had a bad heart attack. I tried to make him come straight home but he wouldn’t—he was as obstinate as a mule—said he must go to a Hospital Board meeting, though he’d come home afterwards. He ought to be back at any time; I wanted to see you first. Take care of him, Inez,—and you too, Ryland. Don’t let him worry; we simply can’t spare him. Above all stop this madcap Lorne scheme.”

He stopped and looked questioningly at Inez, who nodded.

“We’ll take care of him, Uncle Leo,” she said. “Don’t you worry. Won’t we, Ry?”

But Ryland was sitting with a very white face, glaring at his toes.

“What is it, Ry?” asked Inez, slipping on to the sofa beside him and putting her arm round his neck. “Don’t get upset, old man. He’ll be all right if we take care of him.”

Ryland shook himself and looked at her strangely.

“I’m afraid I . . . I wrote to him last night . . . It’ll upset him if he reads it now . . . I wonder if I can get hold of the letter. . . .”

But once more Golpin, like a figure of fate, appeared in the doorway.

“Sir Garth wishes to see you in his study, Mr. Ryland.”

Ryland rose to his feet and walked slowly to the door. Inez rose as if to follow him, but stopped.

“Ry,” she said, her hand making a slight movement as if of appeal. “Be careful.”

Her brother glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, I’ll be careful right enough,” he answered. “I can’t answer for the old man. This means a flogging,” he added, with a feeble attempt at humour.

The door closed behind him and Inez turned to Hessel.

“I can’t stop them,” she said. “They’re both as obstinate as pigs. I do wish they got on better.”

“I told your father today that I thought he was hard on Ryland,” said Hessel, “but I suppose he is rather trying in some ways.”

“Oh, he’s rather a young ass, of course. Stage doors, night-clubs, and that kind of thing. As a matter of fact he is really rather keen on the stage himself, apart from its inhabitants; he’s a jolly good actor. I sometimes wish he’d take it up as a profession; good hard work is what he wants more than anything else. He’s perfectly sound really you know; he’s not a rotter.”

“I’m sure he isn’t, my dear,” said Hessel, patting Inez on the shoulder. “And he’s a lucky young man to have a sister like you to fight his battles. Well, I must be going; I ran away early from school to come and talk to you and I must go and do some overtime now to make up for it. Besides, I don’t want your father to catch me here telling tales.”

When he had gone, Inez sat for a few minutes in gloomy silence, then jumped up, shook herself and turned on the loud-speaker. A jazz-band was playing ‘When father turned the baby upside down’ and Inez danced a few steps to its lilting tune. Suddenly, through stutter of drums and moan of saxophones, Inez heard the front door close with a crash. She stopped for a moment, as if hesitating what to do, then flew to the window and flung it open. Twenty yards down the street she saw the retreating figure of her brother.

“Ry,” she called. “Ry, come back.”

But Ryland, if he heard, took no notice; she saw him hail a taxi, jump into it and drive away. For a moment she hung out of the window, watching till the cab whisked round a corner out of sight; then turned forlornly back into the room.

“So father kissed his baby on its other little cheek . . .” yelled the jazz soloist.

Inez picked up a book and hurled it at the loud-speaker. “Oh, shut up, you filthy fool,” she cried.

The instrument crashed to the floor and was still; Inez flung herself on the sofa and buried her face in her arms.

CHAPTER III.
The Victory Finance Company

The morning after Sir Garth’s confession to Hessel, the cause of it, Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, K.C.B., D.S.O., stepped from his car outside Ald House in Fenchurch Street, greeted the hall-porter cheerfully, refused the lift (“must keep young, you know, Canting”) and climbed briskly up to the offices of the Victory Finance Company on the fourth floor.

The General was a well-built man of about five foot ten, very erect and extremely good-looking, with a straight nose, firm chin, brushed-up moustache, and dark hair only powdered with grey. There was nothing subtle about him; it was quite obvious that he would be an extremely good friend to people whom he liked and frankly contemptuous of those he did not understand. He had done well in command of a division in France (or, what was considered the same thing, the division which he commanded had done well) and was now confidently engaging in a campaign in which he would be even more dependent on the skill of those serving under him.

The offices of this young and promising Finance Company were by no means pretentious. They consisted of a clerks’ room, opening on to the landing, a small room for the manager and secretary, and a larger directors’ room, which also had a door opening on to the stairs.

Sir Hunter, as was his habit, entered by way of the clerks’ room, greeted the two young clerks, asking one about his mother’s neuritis and the other about the fortunes of his pet football club (“Always get to know your men and their interests, my lad”), and passed down the short passage into the directors’ room. Here he found a fellow-director, Captain James Wraile, a clean-cut, clean-shaven man of forty, with the very pale blue eyes that may mean the extremity of either strength or weakness and are so very hard to judge.

“Morning, Wraile, my boy. Glad you’ve turned up,” exclaimed the General heartily. “How goes the world?”

Wraile smiled quietly.

“Well enough, I think, General, if you aren’t in British Cereals.”

“Ah, yes, we did well not to touch that. Your advice, I think, Wraile. I don’t know what we should do without you.”

“It was rather lucky; they looked a good thing at first sight. But one can generally find the weak spot when one gets down to the foundation—as it’s our job to do. Lessingham’s coming in this morning, Blagge tells me, General. He rang through last night to ask if you’d be here.”

“Oh, he is, is he? Very good of him to come at all. I suppose if I see him once a month that’s about all I do, and Resston never. It’s as well he’s coming, though. He’s got a flair and we can do with his advice about the Barsington Dirt Track Racing Company. I don’t quite know what to say about that business, you know, Wraile. It’s a craze at the moment; there’s money in it now—big money. But will it last? Especially in the country towns—there’s a very limited public there, what?”

“Very limited, Sir Hunter. It’s all right for a quick flutter, but a loan—we might find ourselves badly let in.”

“Well, we’ll ask Lessingham—he may jump on it straight away. I respect his judgment. What time’s he coming?”

“Eleven o’clock, he said—should be here any time now.”

“Then I’ll keep my news till he comes—I’ve done a good stroke of business for the Company I think, Wraile, a very big stroke. Ah, here he is. Come on, Lessingham; better sometimes than never. Well, I’m glad to see you. We’ll have your advice first and then I’ll tell you my news—it might put the other out of our heads.”

The newcomer was a man of medium height and rather clumsy build—heavy shoulders, with a suspicion of hump in the back, and a large paunch. His hair was black and rather curly, but his complexion was pale and he wore large yellow-rimmed spectacles, with tinted Crooke’s lenses. He was smartly dressed—rather overdressed, with a heavy cravat and pearl pin; he wore dark-grey gloves which he did not remove even when writing, a habit that grated on the well-trained senses of his fellow-director. He spoke in a very soft and rather husky voice, which yet carried a considerable impression of character. As a matter of fact, he talked very little, leaving Sir Hunter to supply the deficiency. The three men sat down at the board table and were presently joined by the manager, Mr. Albert Blagge. Blagge was a tired-looking, middle-aged man, with honesty and mediocrity written all over him in equal proportions. He took little part in the discussion that followed and it was soon evident that he was employed as a responsible clerk and not as an adviser.

On the subject of Dirt Track Racing the General had a good deal to say and said it well. Lessingham sat beside him at the Board table, sifting through his gloved hands a sheaf of prospectuses over which he ran his eyes—a habit of apparent inattention which intensely annoyed Sir Hunter but of which he had been unable to break his partner. At the end of ten minutes the General had reached his climax and conclusion—the Barsington Dirt Track Company was unsuitable for the Victory Finance Company to handle.

“I agree,” said Lessingham, without looking up from his papers.

Sir Hunter frowned slightly and brushed his moustaches. He would have preferred an argument; he liked something to batter down. On this occasion, however, he was anxious to get on to the more important subject that was itching under his waistcoat. Being slightly uncomfortable about his ground, he assumed a more than usually strong and hearty voice:

“Now, my boy,” he said, “I’ve got a piece of news for you that’ll make you sit up. I’ve done a stroke of business that not many people, I flatter myself, could have brought off.”

Lessingham turned his spectacled eyes for a moment to his companion’s face, then resumed his scrutiny of the Central Motorway Company’s prospectus. Wraile looked at the Chairman with interest, but said nothing. The reception of his opening remarks had not been enthusiastic, but it took more than that to throw Sir Hunter out of his stride.

“You both know Fratten—Sir Garth Fratten—head of Fratten’s Bank—one of the most solid and respected men in the City? You’ll hardly believe me, but I think I have practically persuaded him to join our Board! What do you think of that, eh?”

Sir Hunter paused impressively and looked at his fellow-directors to see what effect this tremendous piece of news would have on them. The effect was certainly visible, but it was hardly of the nature that the General had expected. Wraile looked at him with raised eyebrows—a respectful, but hardly encouraging expression. Lessingham, on the other hand, wore a look of intense anger. His face retained its even white colour but his eyebrows were knit in a heavy frown and his lower lip protruded as he glared at Sir Hunter.

“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “Join our Board? Fratten join our Board? What right have you to ask him without our consent? It’s a gross liberty, Lorne—a gross liberty!”

Sir Hunter was palpably taken aback. He had expected enthusiasm; he received abuse. Not since, as a Brigadier, he had been sent for by the Corps Commander and, instead of receiving the praise he had expected for a “successful” raid, had been frigidly rebuked for squandering lives, had he been so thrown off his balance. He grew red in the face, his moustache bristled, and a line of small bubbles appeared on his lips.

“Wh . . . what’s that?” he stammered. “A liberty! What the hell d’you mean, sir? It’s the best stroke of business I’ve ever done!”

“I can quite believe that,” said Lessingham acidly.

“But, damn it, man, Fratten’s name on our Board will draw money like a magnet! Think of the security it offers. Fratten! Fratten’s Bank practically guaranteeing us!”

“Fratten’s Bank doing nothing of the kind,” exclaimed Lessingham angrily. “There’s a Board of directors there just as there is here; it’s not a one-man show, any more than this is!”

Lorne was staggered. He looked to Wraile for support, but Wraile’s face was cold; he looked at Mr. Blagge, but the manager’s eyes were bent upon the papers before him.

“Well I’m b——,” said the General. “Of all the ungrateful devils! Look here, you chaps, can’t you understand what it’d mean? Every investor looking through a list of Finance Companies will see Fratten’s name on our Board—the biggest name on the whole list—just what we want! Security! Ballast! We’ve got brains, we want ballast! What?”

Lessingham’s reply was quiet this time, but cold, decided, unsympathetic as a surgeon’s knife.

“It is you who don’t understand, Sir Hunter,” he said. “If Fratten were to come on this Board, he would want control—these big men always do. Why else do they come on to our small company Boards? To swallow them up; swamp them. Fratten’s a sound enough man in his own way, but he’s old-fashioned—no use to us. He would turn this Company into a ‘safe-as-houses,’ ‘no risk’—and no result—business, with an investment schedule like his own Bank’s—the last thing we want. You might just as well close the whole thing down. His name might impress an unenlightened investor, but it wouldn’t impress a broker for a minute—a broker would know that Fratten is not the type of man to run an Investment Company, he wouldn’t recommend us to his clients—and the number of investors who deal without the advice of a broker isn’t worth considering. The thing’s a washout, I tell you—a rotten washout!”

Lessingham’s anger spurted up again in his last words—his usually controlled voice revealed, in that sentence, the primeval qualities of his race.

Sir Hunter sat back in his chair, a look of blank astonishment on his face. It lightened, however, as an idea seemed to strike him.

“But Fratten wouldn’t have control,” he said. “He’s not coming into this to make money, but to oblige me—as an old friend. I didn’t tell you—we were old school friends—we met the night before last at an Old-Boy dinner. He wouldn’t want control—or even to interfere. I was going to suggest that we should each of us sell him 5%; but if you aren’t keen, I’ll let him have 10% of my own—that’ll leave me with only 50%, you and Resston’ll still have your fifteen and Wraile his ten. He’s only coming in to oblige me.”

“He’s not coming in at all if I can stop it,” exclaimed Lessingham fiercely. “I don’t know what you think you are, Sir Hunter. You’re Chairman of the Board and you hold a majority of shares, but this isn’t an infantry brigade—your word’s not law. You can outvote us, but we can get out—and if you bring this fellow in, I shall—then see how you get on without me. Wraile can please himself.”

As he spoke, there was a knock at the door and one of the clerks came in.

“Gentleman of the name of Fratten to speak to you on the ’phone, Sir Hunter, sir, please. Shall I put him through?”

“Fratten!” Lorne looked round him with momentary hesitation, then straightened his back.

“Yes, put him through, put him through, my lad, what?” he exclaimed.

There was a moment’s silence as Sir Hunter held the receiver to his ear, then:

“Hullo, Garth, good-morning; good-morning, my dear fellow; good of you to ring me up. What? This morning? By all means, come when you like; come now.” (His eyes wandered defiantly from face to face.) “Yes, of course—delighted to see you, my dear fellow; delighted.”

He replaced the receiver and returned the telephone to its stand on the wall behind his chair.

“Sir Garth’s coming round now,” he said. “Going to look into our doings. Naturally a man in his position can’t commit himself without investigation.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Naturally he can’t, what?”

Lessingham turned towards the manager.

“I’ll ask you to withdraw, please, Mr. Blagge,” he said. The manager gathered up his papers and left the room.

“Now, Chairman,” said Lessingham, speaking quietly but decisively, “this matter’s got to be settled here and now—you’ve invited Fratten to come round here and to join the Board without consulting your fellow-directors. You’ve got the whip hand of us in the matter of votes—you can put him on if you like. But if you put him on, I go off—that’s final. I don’t expect you to settle that in one minute, but you’d better have your mind made up before Fratten gets here. I’m going now; you can let me know what you’ve decided. Only understand, what I’ve said is final.”

He rose and, without another glance at either of his colleagues, walked out the room. Sir Hunter’s face was a dark red; he was deeply offended—and at the same time, seriously alarmed; he knew well enough where the brains of the company lay; Wraile was clear-headed and intelligent, but comparatively an amateur like himself; Lessingham was a financier. At the same time he could not allow himself to knuckle under to a fellow of that type; he could not throw over Fratten; it would be a gross insult to the distinguished banker after asking him to join the Board. Lorne realized that he had acted hastily, perhaps unwisely—but he had gone too far to retire—only a really great general can bring himself to retire.

“You’ll stand by me, Wraile?” he said gruffly. “I count on you.”

“I will, of course, General, if you’re determined on it; I know well enough that I owe everything to you—but I’m sorry you’ve decided to exchange Lessingham for Fratten—I’m convinced that one’s the man for our job and the other isn’t.”

Before Sir Hunter could reply, the door opened and Sir Garth Fratten was announced.

“Good-morning, Lorne,” he said. “Very good of you to let me come round.”

“Come in, my dear fellow, come in!” exclaimed the General, advancing to meet him with outstretched hand. “Delighted to see you. Let me introduce Captain Wraile to you—one of our directors. He was our managing-director till a year or so ago but he was enticed away to a more glittering post than we can afford, what? Ha, ha.” He clapped Wraile on the shoulder to show that he bore him no grudge. “But we were lucky enough to keep him on the Board. He was my Brigade Major in France in ’15—don’t know what I should have done without him—ran the whole show—most efficient fellow you ever saw—don’t blush, my boy; you know I mean it. Marvellous hand at inventing devilments—stink-bombs, rifle grenades, every sort of beastliness he used to contrive for poor old Jerry—long before the authorities dished us out even a ‘jam-pot.’ You ought to have seen our catapult battery behind the Pope’s Nose at Festubert! Ha, ha, that was an eye-opener for Fritz.”

Sir Hunter laughed uproariously, but Wraile, who was intimately acquainted with the moods of his old chief, knew that he was nervous.

“I’m very glad to meet you, Captain Wraile,” said Sir Garth, smiling pleasantly at him. “A little fresh blood and ingenuity is the very thing that’s wanted in post-war finance. May I sit down, Lorne? I’m rather a crock just now and have to nurse myself.”

“My dear fellow, I’m so sorry—inexcusable of me! Have a glass of port [the General’s panacea]—no?—a cigar, anyhow—Corona Corona, handpicked by myself, every one of ’em.”

“I’ll leave you, sir,” said Wraile. “I expect you and Sir Garth want to have a talk.”

“Not the least need for you to go so far as I’m concerned,” said the banker. “You’ve told him what I came round about, Lorne?”

Sir Hunter nodded, and looked rather anxiously at Wraile.

Sir Garth continued: “All I want is just to know roughly your general policy. Then, if you’ll give me a copy of your last Annual Report and Balance Sheet and a Schedule I’ll take them away and just run through them in my spare time. You won’t mind that, I’m sure.”

The Chairman shortly, but not too clearly, outlined the history and activities of the company, and calling in the manager, introduced him to Sir Garth. Fratten looked at him with interest, and evidently realized at once that not here would he find what he was looking for.

“The other members of your Board,” he said when Mr. Blagge had left. “Would you mind letting me know who they are?”

“Of course, of course; I quite forgot that—stupid of me, what? There’s old Lord Resston—he never turns up—holds 15% of the shares and draws his guineas—great disappointment to me. Wraile here comes pretty regularly twice a week; I’m here most days. The only other director’s a chap called Lessingham—Travers Lessingham—very shrewd; doesn’t show up much, though—other irons in the fire, I suppose. Still, when he comes, his advice is worth having. That’s our Board. Then there’s Blagge, our manager, whom you’ve met; Miss Saverel, our very capable secretary, and a couple of junior clerks.”

Fratten nodded. “And do you suppose your fellow-directors will care for me to join you?” he asked.

For a second Sir Hunter hesitated, but before the pause could become awkward—or even apparent—Wraile slipped into the breach—as he had so often done in France.

“Speaking for myself, sir,” he said, “I shall consider it a great honour to work with you.”

The General shot him a grateful glance.

“Of course, I must formally consult my colleagues,” he said, “but, naturally I don’t expect anything but a warm welcome.”

Sir Hunter had burnt his boats.

“Very well,” said Sir Garth, rising, “I’ll look into these papers and let you have a decision within a week or two—it’ll take me a little time—I’m an old-fashioned methodical man and I don’t rush my decisions. Good-day to you, Lorne; good-day, Captain Wraile.”

“I’ll come down with you, my dear fellow—nearly my lunch time—can I persuade you to . . .” the door closed behind them and Wraile was alone. He stood for a moment in thought, then touched a handbell twice. The inner door opened and a young woman, tall, fair, and attractive, came into the room.

“Dictation, please, Miss Saverel.”

The secretary pulled a chair up to the table and opened her note-book.

“My dear Lessingham . . .”

CHAPTER IV.
The Expected Happens

One evening, about a fortnight later, Sir Garth Fratten and Leopold Hessel walked down the steps of the “Wanderers,” in St. James’s Square, of which rather large-hearted club Hessel was a member, and turned towards Waterloo Place. Fratten usually spent an hour or so at his club, or that of one of his friends, in the evening and walked home afterwards across the Park to his house in Queen Anne’s Gate. It was, in fact, the only exercise that he got in the day.

“Thanks for my tea, Leo,” said Sir Garth. “First-rate China tea it was too—I wonder where you get it?”

Hessel smiled. “That’s one of the advantages of being not too exclusive,” he said. “We’ve got members from all parts of the world and in all sorts of business; it’s rather a point of pride with us that each member who can should help the club to get the best of everything. That tea is unobtainable on the market—Rowle gets it for us, he’s a Civil Servant in Hong Kong; we’ve got more than one tea-merchant, but they can’t produce anything to touch it.”

He paused for a moment, then continued: “I wanted to ask you, Fratten, whether you’ve really settled to go into that Finance Company. Inez told me a couple of evenings ago that she was afraid you had, but I hope that she misunderstood you.”

He looked questioningly at his companion.

Fratten, being conscious of unspoken criticism, answered brusquely, “Certainly I have. I don’t know why you all make such a fuss about the thing—it’s quite unimportant.”

“That it certainly is not, in the sense that it endangers your health. But I am afraid it is no use protesting further. You found the Company sound?”

For a second Sir Garth seemed to hesitate, then: “Oh yes, sound, certainly sound—and interesting,” he added with a peculiar smile.

“Exactly,” said Hessel, “and you will throw yourself into it with all your strength and wear yourself out.”

“Nonsense, Leo; don’t be so fussy. Look here, I want to talk to you about Ryland; I want your advice.”

For a few paces Hessel walked on, without seeming to attend to what his friend was saying; then he evidently wrenched his mind back from its wanderings.

“Ryland?” he said. “Not another scrape, I hope?”

The banker frowned. “Scrape is hardly adequate,” he said. “The young fool has got himself engaged to some chorus girl and now—as usual—he’s had enough of her and wants to break it off—naturally she wants money. He wrote to me the other day asking for money—I found his letter when I got back from the Hospital Board the day I had that shock. I sent for him and we had an almighty row—both lost control of ourselves, I’m afraid. I’m rather ashamed of that, but what shocks me so much is that he should have said the things he did. He’d got some queer ideas in his head about entail—he spoke in the most callous and unfeeling way. I was hurt, Leo—deeply hurt. I thought that, at bottom, he was really fond of me.”

“So he is, Fratten, so he is, of course,” interjected Hessel. “You said yourself that you both lost your tempers—one says all sorts of things that one doesn’t mean when one loses one’s temper—then one’s sorry for them and probably one’s too stupid or sensitive to say so. Ryland’s all right really, I’m sure he is—a young ass about women, of course, but his heart’s all right.”

Fratten sighed. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “My God, what a heavenly evening—what a view!”

The two men had reached the top of the broad flight of steps leading from Waterloo Place down into the Mall. Above their heads towered the tall column from which the soldier-prince gazed sadly out over the London that had forgotten him. Daylight had gone, but the lamps revealed the delicate outline of the trees in the Green Park, their few remaining leaves gleaming a golden-brown wherever the light caught them. In the background it was just possible to get a glimpse of the delicate white beauty of the Horse Guards building, its clock-tower illuminated by hidden lights; beyond, on the right the sombre mass of the Foreign Office loomed up against the purple sky. The soft evening fog mellowed the whole scene to one of real beauty.

Fratten stood for a moment drinking it in; his companion waited with him, but seemed to have little eye for his surroundings. He had lighted a cigar and gave some attention to the way in which it was burning.

“Have you ever thought,” he asked as they moved on, “of getting Ryland to take up the stage professionally—either as an actor or producer? He has considerable talent, I believe. It seems to me that real work of any kind, however . . . hold up!”

They had got about half-way down the triple flight of steps, when a man, evidently in a great hurry, running down the steps from behind them, stumbled and fell against Sir Garth, catching hold of his arm to recover his own balance. Fratten did not fall, though he might have done so had Hessel not been on his other side to steady him.

“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered the intruder. “I’m in a great hurry; I hope I haven’t hurt you?”

The speaker was a well-built man of rather more than average height, without being tall. He appeared to be somewhere in the thirties and wore a dark moustache.

“Are you all right, Fratten; are you all right?” asked Hessel, anxiously looking in his companion’s face. Sir Garth had closed his eyes for a minute, and in the dim light he appeared to be rather white, but he soon pulled himself together and smiled at his companion.

“Quite all right, Leo,” he said.

“In that case, sir,” said his “assailant,” “if you’ll forgive me—I’ll be off—great hurry—important message—Admiralty . . .” and he was off, dashing down the steps as before and disappearing in the direction of the great building across the road on the left. A small group of people had collected but when they found that nothing really exciting had happened they quickly dispersed—all except one middle-aged lady who fluttered round Sir Garth, chattering excitedly about “dastardly attack,” “eye-witness,” “police,” etc., until Hessel brusquely requested her to take herself off. Hessel himself was not a little excited; he insisted on cross-examining his friend as to his symptoms, begged him to take a cab and, when he refused, took him by the arm and almost led him along, gesticulating energetically with his free hand, in which the lighted cigar still glowed. Sir Garth thought that he had never before seen his friend display so markedly the reputed excitability of his race.

Fratten himself appeared to be very little upset by the incident; he listened with some amusement to Hessel’s exhortations and allowed himself to be shepherded across the Mall. The pair stopped for a second on the island in the middle to allow a car to pass and then crossed slowly to the other side; they had reached the footway and taken a step or two towards the Horse Guards Parade when Fratten uttered a sharp ejaculation, staggered, and then, gasping for breath, sank slowly down into a limp bundle on the ground. Hessel had been quite unable to hold up the dead-weight of the body through whose arm his own was linked; in fact he was nearly pulled to the ground himself. He threw himself on his knees beside his friend and peered anxiously into his face.

What he saw there was deeply disturbing. Sir Garth’s face was deadly pale in the dim light, his eyes stared up, unseeing but agonized; his mouth was open and set as if in a desperate effort to breathe. But the gasping breaths had ceased, the body was quite still.

Hessel clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.

“Fratten;” he said. “Fratten; can you hear me?”

No answer came from the still figure on the ground.

Hessel looked up at the ring of pale faces hovering above him.

“Has anyone got a car?” he asked, “or a taxi?”

“Shall I fetch a doctor, sir?” asked one of the crowd.

“Or a policeman?” asked another.

“Or an ambulance?”

“No, no, a car. I want to get him to his own house—quite close here. His own doctor—knows all about this. Sir Horace Spavage. Heart—I’m afraid . . . a car . . .”

“I’ve got a car here,” said a newcomer who had pushed his way through the crowd and heard the last words. “A limousine—he’ll be comfortable in that.” (“Not much use to him, though,” he muttered to himself.) “Lend a hand, somebody; I’ll take his shoulders. Put a hand under his head, will you?”

Very carefully the limp form was carried to the car and deposited on the soft cushions of the back seat. Hessel got in beside it and took his friend’s hand, which felt to him deathly cold. The owner of the car got in beside the driver and in less than two minutes they had reached Queen Anne’s Gate. Fortunately, as Hessel thought, Inez was not in and Sir Garth was carried into the morning-room and laid on the big sofa. There was no lift in the house and Hessel did not like, he told Golpin, to risk the climb to the second floor.

Within ten minutes Sir Horace Spavage had arrived. One glance at the white and agonized face was enough.

“Dear, dear!” he said. “So soon?”

Kneeling down by the sofa, he picked up one of his patient’s hands, held the wrist for a few seconds between his fingers and thumb, and laid it quietly down again. Then, undoing the front of the shirt and vest, he laid his hand on the bare chest and tapped it firmly with the rigid fingers of his other hand. Even to Hessel’s untutored ears, the sound produced was curiously muffled and dull. Sir Horace rose slowly to his feet, putting away the stethoscope which he had automatically slipped round his neck.

“Yes; as I thought,” he said. “The aneurism has burst.”

The funeral of Sir Garth Fratten took place on the following Monday. The actual burial was at Brooklands and was attended only by members of the family and a few close personal friends. Ryland and Inez were the chief mourners, Ryland looking very subdued and unhappy, and Inez worn out with misery but erect and calm—and very beautiful in her black clothes. A few distant cousins had come to establish a relationship which the dead man had allowed to remain distant during his life, whilst Leopold Hessel, Laurence Mangane, Sir Horace Spavage, and Mr. Septimus Menticle, the family solicitor, were also present.

In London a memorial service was held at St. Ethelberta’s, one of Wren’s most beautiful—and threatened—City churches. The church was packed with City men of all types and standings. A Director of the Bank of England was present to represent that august institution officially, together with members of the committees of Lloyds and the Stock Exchange. All the directors of Fratten’s Bank, except of course Hessel, were there, and Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, a notable figure even among men of note, represented the Victory Finance Company. Every member of the staff of Fratten’s Bank, which was closed for the day—a unique circumstance—was there, from the chief cashier to the latest-joined stamp-licker. The City felt that one of its big men had gone—one of the fast-disappearing pre-war type—and it was, beneath its inscrutable surface, genuinely moved.

When the burial at Brooklands was over, the party returned to Queen Anne’s Gate. Inez, with quiet dignity, poured out tea and then excused herself and retired, leaving Ryland to act as host to the rather uncomfortable and ill-assorted gathering. When tea was finished a move was made to the dining-room and as soon as the gloomy committee was seated round the big mahogany table, Mr. Menticle produced the last will and testament of his late client. Placing a pair of gold pince-nez upon his aquiline nose, he cleared his throat and, in a precise voice, read the contents of the crisp document in his hand. The distant cousins were all agreeably surprised by what they heard, the staff of Fratten’s Bank were remembered to a man—and girl, various charities were mentioned, though not unduly, and the residue of the estate was divided equally between “my two children, Ryland and Inez Fratten.” Leopold Hessel was appointed sole executor with a generous legacy and the instruction that Sir Garth’s private and business papers should be in the first place scrutinized by him and their disposal left to his sole discretion.

“There, gentlemen!” said Mr. Menticle, when the reading was over, “that represents the attested wishes of a very big and generous man; if, as one who has known him and his family and affairs for many years, I may be allowed to say so, it represents also a very reasonable and well-balanced distribution of the goods which he largely created himself and which, as we know, it was as impossible for him as for any other to take with him out of this world. With your permission, gentlemen—yours especially, Mr. Fratten—I will now withdraw. I have, I am sorry to say, other work awaiting me at my office which this sad occasion has caused me to neglect.”

When the last of the ghouls had left, Ryland Fratten returned to the dining-room and sank again into the chair he had just left. For minutes he sat there, motionless, staring at the polished surface of the table, his face an expressionless mask—except for the eyes, in the depth of which a look of some agonized emotion seemed to lurk—sorrow, remorse, fear?

The door opened quietly and Inez’ wistful face peered round it.

“There you are, Ry!” she said. “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere, since I heard the front door slam. I thought perhaps old Menticle had got his teeth into you about the will or something. What are you doing in here all by yourself, old man?”

Ryland turned his haggard face towards her, an attempt at a smile quivered on his mouth, and then his head sank into his folded arms and a deep sob shook his body.

Inez slipped on to the chair next to him and threw her arm across his shoulders.

“Ry,” she said. “What is it? My dear, tell me.”

A look of anxiety and almost more than sisterly tenderness came into her eyes as Ryland sat motionless, unanswering.

At the same time, back at his office in Lincoln’s Inn—where also he lived, in considerable bachelor comfort—Mr. Menticle emptied his dispatch-case on to the table before him. From the heap of documents he selected one, a parchment, less soiled than most of the others. He ran his eye over its brief contents, looked for a minute out of the window, as if in deep thought, then slowly tore it across and across.

CHAPTER V.
Sir Leward Marradine Takes Interest

The sudden death of Sir Garth Fratten, interesting and, in financial circles, important as it had been, was not sufficiently sensational to remain in the public memory more than a day or two after the funeral. But it was not entirely forgotten. About three days later, Sir Leward Marradine, the Assistant Commissioner in charge of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, called the attention of Chief Inspector Barrod to an advertisement in the Personal Column of The Times.

“Duke of York’s Steps. Miss Inez Fratten will be glad to hear from the gentleman who accidentally stumbled against her father, Sir Garth Fratten, on Thursday 24th October, some time after 6 p.m. Write 168 Queen Anne’s Gate, S.W.”

“Make anything of that, Barrod?” asked the A.C.C.[¹] “I wonder if it’s in any other papers.”

“Yes, sir, a lot of them. Many of the “pennies” have got a paragraph about it. It’s just the sort of thing they seize on to and try and work up into a ‘sensation.’ ”

“I wonder what the girl’s got in her mind,” muttered Sir Leward.

“Hardly a matter for us, is it, sir?” asked his subordinate.

“No, not at—not as far as I know. You needn’t bother about it, Barrod; I know the girl slightly—I’ll go and see her quietly, just in case there’s something behind this. Now, about these Treasury note forgeries; has Murgate reported yet on the Goodge Street plant? I don’t believe myself that that outfit could have produced such high-class work. . . .”

Soon after five that evening, Sir Leward emerged from Scotland Yard and crossed Whitehall in the direction of Storey’s Gate, taking off his hat to the delicate Cenotaph which lay on his right.

The head of the C.I.D. was a squarely built man of medium height, with long arms and rather rounded shoulders. In spite of the fact that he had been a soldier, he was clean-shaven, whilst his mouth, with its full lips, was intelligent rather than firm. Occupying a succession of comfortable posts at the War Office during the last three and a half years of the War, he had been at hand to slip into this plum of ex-service civilian posts when it fell vacant, being wise enough to relinquish a better-paid but moribund Army appointment before the returning flood of warriors from sea and land glutted both service and civilian markets.

The sight of the Cenotaph reminded Marradine that Remembrance Day was nearly at hand again. This annual ceremony, the heart of which lay so close to his own work, always filled him with an intensity of patriotic and heroic feeling. What a wonderful sight it must be for those million dead Britons to look down—if they could look down—upon the dense black and white sea of their comrades and descendants, motionless and silent in memory of them. To see the King—head of the greatest Empire the world has ever known—and all his ministers, his admirals and generals, standing there in reverence, with bared heads. Quaint in a way, when you thought of some of the million whose memory they were hallowing—scoundrels, a lot of them, cowards a good many, and the great bulk only fighting and dying because they had to. Still it was a noble death. War itself was a noble, an heroic affair, in a way, bringing out all that was best in a man. Sir Leward felt a thrill of pride that he himself had been a soldier.

The great Government offices were emptying now and the hurrying crowds of men and women, all with the eager look of “home and supper” in their eyes, gave to the familiar scene an air of vitality, slightly romanticized by the soft haze of autumn twilight.

As Marradine expected, Inez Fratten was at home and in the middle of tea in the comfortable morning-room next to the front door. She was looking even more attractive than Sir Leward remembered and he was glad when a dark young man who was with her, introduced by some name faintly resembling his own, muttered some excuse and departed. Marradine accepted a large cup of tea and a muffin.

“How nice of you to call,” said Inez, smiling sweetly—as she would have called it—at him, after Sir Leward had murmured suitable words of consolation. As a matter of fact Inez was rather at a loss where to “place” her visitor; she remembered meeting him at some dinner, that he was something important under the Government, and that he had paid her rather heavy-handed attention after dinner, but she was not sure whether, under his official manner, he was young-old, or old-young, “rather a dear,” or “a pompous ass.” She didn’t even know whether it was worth the bother of finding out. His first words, however, quickly switched her mind off these trivial matters to one of, for her, intense interest.

“I saw your advertisement in The Times, Miss Fratten. I wondered whether I could help you in any way—I daresay you know that I’m at Scotland Yard.”

“I hadn’t quite realized it—I knew you were something important,” said Inez. “I hope you don’t think it was very silly of me to put that advertisement in.”

“What was in your mind? Don’t tell me, of course, if you don’t want to—I’m not here officially—but if I’m to help . . .” Marradine left the sentence unfinished.

Inez thought for a minute. She wasn’t sure that she quite liked what she saw of her visitor, but obviously he could find out far more for her than she could herself. Anyhow, she couldn’t very well do any harm by talking to him.

“I haven’t got anything very definite in my mind,” she replied. “But it seems to me so odd that that man who knocked into father—who must, quite accidentally of course, have been the cause of his death—shouldn’t have shown any sign—written to me, or something.”