Chapter 3

"A PRIVATE INQUIRY AGENT."

The same evening Laurence had a long and confidential conversation with Mrs. Purcell. He made known to her all his suspicions and theories, and the grounds upon which he based them. She listened attentively to all he had to say. Then she read through the newspaper reports, and once again scrutinized the portrait of Carson taken at Sandbeach. She prided herself upon the possession of a clear head and a logical mind, and she brought both to bear upon the case as Mallow presented it to her. She arrived at the conclusion that Carson was an actual impostor and a probable murderer--a stage further than that at which Mallow had been able to arrive.

"If you believe, as I do, that the man is an impostor," she argued, "surely he must be guilty of the murder also, else how could he have become possessed of the bangle and the wrist-buttons?"

"But, Mrs. Purcell, I cannot absolutely prove that he is an impostor, even though I firmly believe him to be one."

"Sir!" said the lady in her most impressive tone, "our human judgments are fallible, I admit, but with such evidence as is before us, there can be no possible doubt that the husband of Olive is not the man whose name he bears. She herself does not believe in him, and her reasons are in every respect sound; his dealings with her money, for instance; his silence regarding his early days in Hindoostan; his use of his right hand on several occasions when he forgot the part he was playing. The letter from Italy, too, is of great weight, seeing that the writer of it also wrote to the woman Trall. That is proved by the handwriting, which is in all respects identical. The letter to his wife, the man might possibly have dictated, but the peculiarly private nature of that which he wrote to the girl makes it highly improbable that any hand save his own was instrumental in penning it. Moreover, this is no left-handed writing, the letters are far too firmly formed. The right hand of the man must, therefore, have been uninjured, which again proves that he was an impostor. Now, although I am not actually prepared to swear in a court of law that this portrait is not the portrait of Mr. Angus Carson, yet I feel quite satisfied in my own mind that it is not, for the reasons which I have already given you."

"You make out an excellent case against him, Mrs. Purcell," said Mallow, "but it is only right to say that the man did know something about India."

"Naturally," she interrupted, "he would obtain whatever information was necessary for his purpose from his friend, Major Semberry."

"Then you agree with me in making Semberry an accessory?"

"Certainly. You know my opinion of Major Semberry, Mr. Mallow. He is a man utterly without conscience, without scruple, without religion. He cultivates the most extravagant tastes, while possessing means insufficient to gratify them. To place himself beyond the pinch of poverty I am convinced that he would hesitate at no crime--so long, of course, as he saw his way clear to avert the consequences."

"Well," said Laurence, "there is one method of throwing light on the matter which I would like to propose; it is that you permit me to bring Semberry here to you that you may tax him with this fraud to his face, and in my presence."

"By all means do so, Mr. Mallow. You may depend upon my acting with all discretion. In the mean time I will communicate with Olive at Sandbeach, and invite her to come to me as soon as she can. And, Mr. Mallow, permit me cordially to thank you for the infinite pains at which you have been to place me completely in possession of the facts of this very terrible matter. Together we will go into it, and see whether we cannot unravel what at present appears to be a mystery of the most complex order. Good-night, Mr. Mallow, good-night."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Purcell. I am afraid we shall find our task no light one."

"Not light, perhaps, but not impossible; and what is not impossible is always possible, is it not, Mr. Mallow?"

With this consolatory truism Mrs. Purcell dismissed her coadjutor and addressed herself to the task of writing to Olive. She did not tell her how much she knew of her story, but merely that she was aware of her husband having deserted her. She invited her to come at once to London, and urged the advantage of her being on the spot while affairs were being investigated. Mrs. Purcell rejoiced in her character of dea ex machin� and poured forth pages of ponderous English such as would have done credit to the conduct of a political intrigue. The r�le appealed to her. She imagined herself a true Madame de Sta�l. Mallow could have chosen no better assistant.

He got no sleep that night. His mind was full of his projected visit to Semberry. In the morning he started off for Marquis Street, but found that, early as it was, Semberry had already gone out--on business, according to his valet, though as to the nature of the business the man maintained complete ignorance. Leaving word that he would return about one o'clock, Mallow wandered about aimlessly, until, bethinking himself that he was wasting valuable time, he determined to try his luck in Soho, and look up Drabble. He had no sooner turned into Poplar Street, than he came face to face with Semberry. Judging from his expression, the Major was in no very good tune. It was more than probable he had been calling upon Drabble, and the interview had not been to his liking.

"Good-morning, Semberry," said Mallow, blocking the way, "I'm glad to see you."

"Morning," he grunted, and made as to pass, a move which Mallow soon thwarted.

"I see you're in a hurry," he said amiably, "so I'll just walk a bit of the way with you. There is a friend of yours most anxious to renew your acquaintance."

"Very kind of him; who is he?"

"It is not a he, but a she--Mrs. Purcell of Bombay."

As was his custom when nervous, the Major's fingers sought his moustache.

"Oh, Mrs. Purcell," he said, with a desperate effort to appear at his ease, "what does she want?"

"To see you--and Carson, if you can bring him."

"Nothing to do with Carson now--better ask his wife 'bout him. As to m'self, no time to hang round old woman--leavin' town."

"Mrs. Purcell will be very sorry," said Laurence, smoothly. "Are you going abroad?"

"Don't know; depends. What makes you think so?"

"Well, I fancied perhaps you might be anxious to join Carson."

"Join Carson?" He stopped short and paled a trifle. "What do y' mean? Carson's on his honeymoon."

"Oh no, he isn't," retorted Mallow. "Carson's honeymoon is at an end; has been for two weeks or more. He is in Italy now."

"In Italy? Damme, how d'you know that?"

"Well, about a week ago he wrote to his wife from Florence. It would seem he has gone abroad to look after the money of which he has become possessed by his marriage."

"What! You don't tell me he's got the money with him?"

"I believe so. Mrs. Carson heard from the solicitor that he had sold the stocks and shares, to a large amount, and had transferred the funds to the Paris branch of the Cr�dit Lyonnais."

With effort Semberry repressed himself. A string of forcible epithets was obviously on the tip of his tongue. Although he was probably aware that Carson had left Sandbeach, it was evidently news to the Major that he and the money were together on the continent.

"Seems Carson and his wife don't pull," was all he said.

"I fear not," said Mallow, coolly. "In spite of the old adage, Carson seems to have preferred the maid to the mistress."

"What d'ye mean?" growled the Major, tugging savagely now at his moustache.

"I mean that the girl Clara Trall has joined Carson in Florence."

"It's a lie! She wouldn't dare----" Here the Major evidently thought he had said more than enough, for he stopped short.

"I am not accustomed to be told I am a liar, sir!"

"Beg pardon, Mallow; excuse, slip o' the tongue."

"And why should Clara Trall not dare?"

"Don't know," replied Semberry, uneasily; "shouldn't think a maid would dare clear out with her mistress's husband."

"I am afraid Clara is a bad lot, Major. Why did you recommend her?"

"Didn't. Mrs. Arne did."

"Who is Mrs. Arne?"

"Friend o' mine," snapped the Major, shortly. "'Scuse me, must be getting on. Kind regards to Mrs. Purcell. See her when I get back;" and the brave soldier, picking up his guilty conscience, under fire of Mallow's too-searching questions, fairly ran away.

Mallow decided to postpone his visit to Drabble. He had gained nothing of value from his brisk little interview with the Major. On the contrary, he feared he had given away a very definite piece of information, for he felt convinced that an hour ago Semberry had been ignorant of the fact that Carson and Clara were in Florence. He was fearful lest he should have aroused his suspicions in any way. He might, perchance, act upon the knowledge he had just obtained. Mallow determined he would have him watched. There and then he proceeded to a private inquiry office, of which he had informed himself in case of need. He asked for an agent to be placed at his disposal. The payment of a sum down secured this without difficulty, and in due course a personage--said by his employers to be one of the cleverest detectives in Europe--was told off to serve him.

In appearance, Hiram Vraik--for that was the man's name--might well have passed for one of the worst of the class he was employed in pursuing. He was assuredly a most villainous-looking creature. He was exceedingly small, and lithe as a ferret, his face was white and pasty, his ears were enormous, and his eyes red-rimmed as those of a rat. His crop would have done justice to any prison barber. He approached Mallow with a cringing, slimy politeness, which, coupled with his appearance, made him doubly repulsive. However, argued Mallow, dirty work needs dirty tools.

"I want you to watch a man," he said, when he had got Vraik to himself in the parlour of a public-house near at hand. "Here are his name and address. Now, listen, and I'll tell you all about it."

"Yes, sir; it's best to trust me all in all, sir. If I know everything I can do as much as any man, but if I don't--well, sir, I may as well hand you back your money straight off."

As he proceeded to relate the details of the case to Vraik, the little man's eyes lit up, and he became more rat-like than ever.

"It's a big job," he said. "But I'm your man, sir; and if I get there with it I'll expect to be mighty well paid."

"Oh, you'll be paid well enough, I promise you that," replied Mallow.

"Very good, sir; I know what I've got to do, and I'd better go and do it. Whatever this Major does, and wherever he goes, you shall know. I'll lose no time as soon as I've got anything to report. Whew! The Athelstane Place business! I am in luck!" And Vraik wriggled himself off.