Chapter 2

A CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATION.

When Maunders passed into the atrium, Vernon returned slowly to his seat under the peristyle. Here he ordered a fresh cup of strong coffee to clear his brain, lighted another cigarette, and sat down to recall the late conversation. As a preliminary to a thorough consideration of the situation, he ran over in his mind what he knew of the man who wished to become his partner. His memories showed Maunders to be an exceedingly unscrupulous person, who was ready to do anything to gratify his appetite for pleasure.

Vernon's recollections carried him back to a Berkshire village of which his father had been the squire. Mrs. Bedge, the widow of a Levantine merchant, had taken a house in the neighbourhood, and there had settled with her nephew, Constantine Maunders. It seemed that her sister had married a naturalised Greek, hence the boy's Christian name. As the parents were dead, Mrs. Bedge, being without offspring, had adopted the orphan. From what Vernon remembered, Maunders had always been a handsome and charming little boy, who usually got his own way by sheer amiability and good looks. But he had inherited more from his Greek father than a classical face and a Christian name which smacked of old Constantinople, for he was crafty and clever, and utterly without moral principle. He could conceal his feelings admirably, he could scheme for his wants very dexterously, and he told a lie or the truth with the utmost impartiality when either suited the end to be gained. Posing as an innocent angel-child, he deceived everyone, and although outwardly he appeared to be an unsophisticated babe, he was in reality a little monster of egotism. Even when they were children together, Vernon--from bitter experience--had always mistrusted Constantine, and had judged his character more accurately than grown-up people. Those were invariably taken in by the brat's cherubic aspect.

At Eton, Constantine fared less happily. He was ten years of age when his aunt sent him there, and, as Vernon then was fifteen, she had asked him to look after her darling. But all Vernon's chivalry could not save Constantine from well-deserved kicks and thrashings. Schoolboys are not to be taken in by angel-children, so Constantine did not have a happy time. However, he was so diplomatic and unscrupulous that he managed to scramble through school life fairly well. At Oxford--whither he went some years after Vernon--he got on better, and became a general favourite because of his general pliancy of disposition. By means of that same pliancy he usually secured his selfish ends, under a guise of consistent amiability. Being quick-brained and clever, if somewhat shallow, he secured his degree, and left the University with an excellent character. Since then he had been a man about town, supported by his aunt's money. Mrs. Bedge had settled in London at Constantine's request, and could refuse him nothing. Yet--as Vernon judged from what the young man had said--even Mrs. Bedge's generosity could not supply Maunders with sufficient money to gratify the selfish desire he had always had for pleasure. Only the income of a Rothschild could have entirely satisfied his cravings for the delights of existence.

Vernon had been less lucky in life. His father had speculated rashly, and three years prior to the meeting of the young men at the Athenian Club had died a comparative pauper. Thrown on his own resources and without a profession, Vernon had utilised his observant and logical faculties to set up in private practice as a detective. For two years he had carried on the trade with success and without having been found out. But now that Constantine had come on the scene, Vernon felt that there would be trouble. Of course, by taking him as a partner an exposure could be avoided, but only temporarily. Maunders was so ready to make mischief that Vernon felt he would take all he could get out of the business, and when prosperous by marriage with Ida Dimsdale, would not hesitate to tell the truth. The sole safeguard lay in the fact that, being tarred with the same brush, Maunders for his own social sake might hold his tongue. He was always clever enough to avoid the publication of any facts to his disadvantage. It really seemed, on these grounds, that it would be judicious to admit him as a partner. But Vernon shivered at the prospect. At the best, such a business as he was engaged in, was a delicate one and decidedly unpopular. With Maunders' unscrupulous methods it might degenerate into a series of shady transactions.

"But I'll take the month and think it over," thought Vernon, when he had finished his coffee and cigarette. "Much may happen in thirty days which may enable me to get out of the difficulty." Then he took out his watch and noted that it was ten o'clock. "Just time to see Dimsdale," he yawned.

When putting on his light overcoat in the vestibulum, Vernon thought it was a strange coincidence that Maunders should have mentioned--incidentally, of course--the name of the man with whom he had an appointment at half-past ten o'clock. Earlier in the day Vernon had received a pressing note asking him to meet the writer at Colonel Towton's chambers, Ralph Street, St. James's, at that hour. So, as a matter of fact, two names pertinent to the situation had been mentioned, Dimsdale and Towton. Vernon wondered as he walked along Pall Mall what the reason could be. He did not believe in coincidence, and had sufficient experience of life to doubt the existence of chance, so the mention of the names taken in conjunction with the appointment must point to some problem being worked out. Vernon believed--as every thoughtful man must believe--that everything was worked out in the unseen world before it became a factor in the visible plane, and he was quite prepared to find, on this assumption, that the meeting with Dimsdale in Towton's chambers was more important than it appeared to be on the surface. Subsequent events proved that he was right in his conjecture.

Meanwhile--as he was a one-thing-at-a-time man--he sauntered leisurely along towards his destination, wondering what Dimsdale wished to see him about. The ex-police-commissioner was one of the very few people who knew of the business in Covent Garden. Dimsdale had been a life-long friend of Vernon's father, and had welcomed the young man with open arms to his home. It was odd that Vernon had not fallen in love with Ida, as nothing would have pleased Dimsdale better than to have given his daughter and her money to his old friend's son. But Fortune in her freakish way had decided that Vernon should fall in love with Lucy Corsoon, where every obstacle would be placed in the way of a successful wooing, so Ida and Arthur had settled contentedly down into a brother and sister relationship.

Dimsdale was annoyed that his pet project of a marriage could not come to pass, but there was no help for it, as he could not govern the young man's affections. Also he was annoyed because Vernon, when the death of his father occurred, would not let the elder man assist him. However, he told him his plans about the private inquiry office, and although the ex-police commissioner did not wholly approve, he judged from his knowledge of the young man's detective powers, that it was the best use he could put his talents to. More than this, he managed to bring him clients, and to spread the fame of Nemo by dexterous allusions. Vernon therefore was doing very well in the line he had struck out for himself, and felt duly grateful to Dimsdale for his assistance. He thought as he walked along Ralph Street that probably the old gentleman had found him a fresh client. But it was odd that Colonel Towton's chambers should have been chosen as the meeting place, since Dimsdale belonged to several clubs. And the matter, whatever it was, must be very important, else Dimsdale would have waited until Vernon paid his weekly visit to the Hampstead bungalow.

It was only a quarter-past ten o'clock when Vernon arrived, and he thought that he would have to wait. But Towton's servant intimated that Mr. Dimsdale was watching for his visitor in the Colonel's particular sanctum, and ushered the young man into the room, after relieving him of his coat and hat. The Colonel himself did not appear to be present, but Martin Dimsdale was smoking in a deep arm-chair, and jumped up in his boyish way to shake hands warmly. He always had a great regard for Arthur Vernon.

The room was an ordinary apartment, comfortably furnished, but in a strictly bachelor fashion. The scheme of colour was deep green and deep red, so that it appeared somewhat sombre. Trophies of Towton's sporting instincts in the shape of skins and heads appeared on the walls and on the floor. There were many military portraits and groups about, reminiscent of the Colonel's army life. The two windows were open and the curtains were pulled back, so that the room was fairly cool, while on the table stood a syphon, some glasses and a decanter of whisky, together with a box of cigars. These were at Mr. Dimsdale's elbow. He had evidently been passing the time in smoking and drinking pending his young friend's arrival.

"I'm glad to see you, boy," said the ex-police commissioner, pointing to a chair. "Sit down and make yourself at home. Towton gives me full permission to play in this yard. Have a peg and a cigar."

"Not too strong, please," warned Vernon, accepting a cigar and sinking into the indicated chair. "I haven't so steady a head as yours."

"It's a cleverer head," said Dimsdale, squirting in the potash. "Else I should not have asked you to meet me here--Nemo."

"Oh!" Vernon placed the glass beside him. "I thought it was a Case. But why did you ask me to meet you in Towton's rooms, and where is Towton?"

"At my sister's ball along with Ida and Miss Hest."

"Lady Corsoon's ball?"

Dimsdale sat down and nodded. "Yes. It's a swell affair, as Sir Julius wants to make an impression on some Australian people he desires to rope into his schemes for making money. Something to do with mines, I believe. I didn't feel inclined to go, although I daresay I'll have to look in later to fetch Ida and Miss Hest home. I wished particularly to see you." His manner assumed a portentous gravity. "So I asked Towton if I could come here and make the appointment."

"But at your club----"

"What I have to say is sacred and secret," interrupted the old gentleman. "A club has many eyes and many ears. Better be on the safe side. Oh, that's all right," he added with a nod, on seeing Vernon's eyes stray to the open window. "Those only look out over the roofs of houses. No one can hear us. Whisky all right; cigar drawing well? Very good. Now then!" He settled himself for an exhaustive talk.

The old Indian officer had certainly not been dried up by the hot climate where he had spent the greater part of his life. He was a round, tubby, rosy-faced little man, all curves and gracious contentment. His face was clean-shaven and his head was bald, while his sharp grey eyes twinkled behind golden-rimmed pince-nez, balanced on an unimportant nose. With his round head and round body--sphere super imposed on sphere--and short legs, he looked like the figure of a Chinese mandarin, and nodded his head like one when he wished to emphasise a point. There was nothing military about him in any way, and Vernon wondered how so natty and neat an old gentleman ever came to have command of men appointed to hunt down Dacoits in the jungles of Burmah. Yet Dimsdale's official career had been a stirring one, and he had done good service in pacifying the country after the war. Now he had beaten his sword into a plough-share, and, with a considerable fortune, was spending his amiable old age under his own fig-tree. When Vernon looked at the rotund little man with the round rosy face, he saw before him a perfectly contented human being, and a very kind-hearted one to boot.

"Well, sir," he said, leaning back comfortably, "we're tiled in, as masons say, so I shall be glad to hear what you have to tell me. Also, I am obliged to you for seeking out this especial case for me."

"Two special cases, my boy, two special cases," said Mr. Dimsdale, wagging his head and looking more like a Chinese mandarin than ever. "One has to do with me--I'll tell you about it later; the other has to do with Mrs. Bedge and her adopted son."

"Maunders!" cried Vernon, astonished to find that his premonition was coming true. "You don't mean Constantine?"

"Yes, I do, Arthur; of course I do. Young Maunders. I never did like that boy somehow in spite of his good looks and polite manners. After all, he's half a Greek, and I don't like the Greeks either. They're nearly as tricky as the Armenians, and that's saying a lot. All the same, I'm sorry for the sake of Emily. I'm an old friend of Emily. Ha, ha! I was in love with her before she married Bedge. He was a Levantine merchant, you know, dealt in currants and cherry jam and all the rest of it. Not a bad chap, from what I remember of him, but far too old a husband for Emily----"

"Do you mean Mrs. Bedge?" asked Vernon, vainly endeavouring to stem the flow of the old man's speech.

"Of course I mean Mrs. Bedge. I call her Emily because--ha! ha!--I was in love with her. She was a handsome girl in those years, and a good one. Why, look how she adopted that rascal--I can't help thinking young Maunders a rascal, though he does want to marry Ida, which is not to be thought of. Yes, yes! Emily always was good. I don't believe a word of it, not a word." And Mr. Dimsdale, bringing his fist down on the table, glared at his companion through his pince-nez.

"You don't believe a word of what?" asked Vernon soothingly.

"I'm coming to that; I'm coming to that. Don't worry me and hurry me." Mr. Dimsdale rubbed his nose in a vexed manner. "Young Maunders, now. Eh, what? Have you seen young Maunders lately?"

"It's odd you should ask that," said Vernon slowly, "because I have just parted from him at the Athenian Club."

"Don't have anything to do with him, Arthur; he's a bad lot, a very bad lot indeed. Oh, it's nothing that he has done. I wouldn't say to anyone else what I am saying to you. But I can read character, and I have observed Master Constantine. He's so selfish that he would boil Emily for his own gratification, if it pleased him. And she would let herself be boiled, too; she's as silly over the scamp as he is selfish towards her. Why do you cultivate his society? Eh, what? It's wrong and stupid; yes, yes, stupid and wrong."

"I haven't seen so very much of him since we left Oxford," objected Arthur, "and certainly I don't cultivate him, as you put it, for I admire his character as little as you do."

"And on more tangible grounds, perhaps? Eh, what? Tell me."

"No; I have not much to go on. At school and at college, and when we were children together in Berkshire, I never wholly liked Constantine. He's too selfish and too unscrupulous, although he always keeps on the right side of the law. Still, if he could do anything for his own benefit against the law without being found out and made to pay the penalty, I believe he would have little hesitation in doing it."

"I daresay; no doubt you speak the exact truth from intuition. He's a snake that young man, a pretty, curly, insinuating snake; he's poison in a well-shaped and well-coloured bottle. Poor Emily! poor Emily! silly woman, but goodness itself. She's a Mrs. Lear with a thankless adopted child, sharper than a serpent's tooth. Bless her, and damn him for a rogue, though, bless me, I can't bring any actual charge against the young beast. Ha, no! but when one sees smoke, one guesses fire."

"Did you tell him that I was Nemo?" asked Vernon bluntly.

Dimsdale grew furiously red and furiously angry, so angry indeed that he rose to stamp about the room. "How the devil can you ask me such a question, and how dare you, if it comes to that? Am I an ass, an idiot, a babbler? I wouldn't tell Maunders that I had eaten my dinner, much less inform him of a secret which it is to your advantage to keep. Why do you ask? Hang you, for thinking me a traitor and a gossip."

"Forgive me," said Vernon with an apologetic air. "I am quite sure that you have preserved the secret of how I earn my money. But I know that Constantine haunts your house, and thought you might have let drop a casual hint, which he is clever enough, as we both know, to take advantage of. But the fact is he had found out about Nemo, and threatens unless I take him into partnership--he has given me a month to turn over the proposition--that he will make Society too hot to hold me."

"The young rascal, the young blackmailing scoundrel," cried Dimsdale, stamping again. "It's just what he would do. He haunts my house to make love to Ida, and I would rather see her dead than as his wife, especially now that I know what I am about to tell you."

"What is it?"

"Later on I shall explain. Meanwhile, don't beat about the bush, but tell me exactly what Maunders threatens."

Vernon detailed the conversation, and Dimsdale returned to his seat to hear the narrative. When it was ended he nodded with compressed lips. "Very clever on the part of Master Snake. He has you in his power right enough, since he is ready to betray you if you don't obey his commands. Well, then, I am going--to a certain extent--to put him in your power."

"What? Have you found out----"

"I have found out nothing," said Dimsdale testily. "Don't interrupt. Do you know of a blackmailer called The Spider?"

Vernon half rose and then sat down again with an effort at self-control. "I have come across his work on several occasions, and so has Scotland Yard. No one knows what he is or where he lives or anything about him. He gets his name from the fact that he always signs his blackmailing letters with the stamped representation of a spider."

"Go on," said Dimsdale, quite calmly for him, "tell me more."

"There is little to tell, sir. The Spider learns people's secrets somehow, and in a way which no one can discover. He then writes to this or that person and threatens unless a certain sum of money is paid to publish the secret by means of postcards sent to the private address and sometimes to the club of his victim. Of course, there is no combating this mode of procedure, so most people pay quietly, although some have kicked."

"Why isn't the reptile arrested when he comes for his money? Tell me that, sir. Tell me that."

"Sometimes the money is sent to a given address, and at other times The Spider, masked and cloaked, meets his victim personally. He is not arrested because he always tells his victim that if the police are brought into the question, and he is jailed, the especial secret will be published all the same to the world by a hidden accomplice by means of postcards. So you can see, Mr. Dimsdale, that if any person wishes his or her secret to be preserved they cannot risk an arrest. Still, I have been employed by one or two victims to learn the truth, and I have failed. I can't lay hands on The Spider, nor can any of the official detectives."

Mr. Dimsdale nodded. "He's a clever animal," said he grimly. "You have described his mode of procedure extremely well, my boy. It's just the way in which he is tormenting Emily."

"Mrs. Bedge. Is he blackmailing her?"

"Of course he is. Don't I tell you so?" said Dimsdale crossly. "She asked me to come and see her yesterday, and showed me three letters, with the figure of a spider at the foot of the writing. The reptile wants five thousand pounds, else he will send cards to her private address and to her friends stating that Constantine is her illegitimate son."

"What?" Vernon leaped from his chair aghast.

"Of course, it's an infernal lie," said Dimsdale warmly. "Emily is a good woman, even though she jilted me to marry a man old enough to be her father. She was true to him; I swear she was true to him, and simply adopted the son of his partner Maunders--his real name was Constantine Mavrocordato--because the boy's father and mother were dead."

"There is no grounds for this assertion on the part of The Spider?"

"Absolutely none. Confound it, sir, you know Emily," raged Dimsdale. "Can you know her and doubt for a moment but that this viper has made a most iniquitous accusation? She has the boy's certificate of birth, and can prove the truth, and moreover can call evidence on the part of friends who knew about the adoption when it took place. But you know that mud sticks, Arthur, however innocent a person may be. Emily simply can't stand up against this blackguard attempt. If she refuses to send the five thousand pounds to the address given within a fortnight, The Spider says he will send cards making his lying assertion to all her friends. Even if she rebutted it--as she can--there would always be shrugged shoulders and raised eyebrows and cold looks, and no-smoke-without-fire remarks."

"True!" Vernon looked thoughtfully at his cigar tip. "Plenty of innocent people do not care to face publicity on that account. Human nature is so prone to believe the worst, even in the face of the very plainest evidence. What does Mrs. Bedge propose to do?"

"She wanted to send the money, but I suggested that she should let me place the matter in your hands."

"Thank you. I'll do my best. But it's a difficult case, as The Spider is so hard to find."

"On this occasion I don't think he will be," said Dimsdale with grim humour, "since I propose to work with you."

"I don't understand----"

"Don't I speak plainly?" asked Dimsdale tartly. "I said there were two cases, didn't I? Answer me, sir; answer me?"

"Yes, but----"

"There is no but about the matter, Arthur. I shall make a full explanation after I have asked a simple question."

"And the question?"

"You see, don't you, how this information places Maunders, young beast, in your power?"

"No, I don't," answered Vernon very plainly and somewhat aggressively; "if you mean that I am to use my knowledge of his falsely being accused of illegitimacy as a threat to keep him from worrying me into a partnership."

"I don't mean that in the least," cried Dimsdale warmly. "Confound you, sir, would you make me out to be no better than this spider reptile. What I mean is that you can say to Maunders that you will receive him into partnership if he hunts down The Spider and clears the character of his adopted mother. Not that Emily's character requires clearing in my eyes, mind you. But we must consider the limitations of human nature, my boy, and place Emily, like C�sar's wife, above suspicion. Now do you understand? Eh, what? Reply, sir."

Arthur nodded. "I understand. And if Maunders hunts down The Spider he will be worth engaging as a partner."

"No, I don't mean that. But you are setting him to achieve an impossibility, and unless he fulfils your wish he cannot hope to be a partner. In the meantime, you and I hunt down The Spider. Then when we have him jailed, Maunders, not having done what you asked of him, can't expect to become a partner."

"I think he will in any case?" said Vernon grimly.

"I think not, sir," said Dimsdale very distinctly. "Of course, Emily is all right, and this blackmailing accusation is a lie. All the same, Maunders, who is anxious to secure a position in Society and marry Ida--confound him, he never shall with my consent--will not wish the slightest breath of his being a possible natural child to get about."

"I should say nothing," said Vernon stiffly.

"Quite so. I never expected you would. But the mere probability of the business becoming known will make Maunders careful. He won't worry you again, as, judging you by his own iniquitous self, he will think you capable of betraying him. _Now_ can you see?"

"Yes. But Constantine knows that I would never speak."

"I daresay, because he thinks the bribe isn't enough. He believes as Peel did--or Walpole was it?--that every man has his price. He won't worry you, I tell you, if you give the merest hint to him of the matter. Not that you need to, for he will know about this blackmailing letter to-morrow."

Vernon recalled how Maunders had said that his aunt had detained him, and how he had suggested that she had something on her mind. "He doesn't know it at present, anyhow."

"No. Emily saw me before speaking to him. However, listen to the scheme I have in my mind to catch this Spider wretch. He is trying to blackmail me."

"Oh!" Vernon sat up and laughed. "How ridiculous. You of all men cannot be blackmailed, since your life is so open."

"No man's life is open," said Dimsdale drily; "and mine has its dark pages as everyone else's has. I have a secret; not a particularly bad one, it is true. Still, one that I should prefer to keep to myself."

"What is it?"

"I shan't tell you or any man," snapped the ex-police commissioner. "It is sufficient to say that it is not a very bad secret, and that even if it were told to the world it would matter little. However, The Spider--hang him, I think he must have some acquaintance with my life in the East--has learned something I thought no one but myself knew anything about. He asks one thousand pounds, which is moderate compared with his demand on Emily. Shows that he knows my secret isn't so very deadly, or it would be worth more."

"Did he write to you?" asked Vernon alertly. "Of course he did, making the usual threat of exposure by postcards to self and friends. Now I am going to consent to his demands."

"And pay the money?"

"I didn't say that," corrected Dimsdale sharply, "but I am writing asking him to meet me in my library, and receive the money; also for him to hand over any documents to me which even hint at my secret. When he comes, you can be concealed in the room and we'll take him in charge."

"But then your secret will become known," objected Vernon. "The Spider always provides against arrest by leaving the evidence in the hands of others to publish."

"He can publish what he likes about me," said Mr. Dimsdale coolly; "don't I tell you that the secret is of little value. The Spider in his letter to me embroidered upon actual fact, and can make things unpleasant; but I can prove the exact truth of what he states, and so can save my bacon. There may be a few cold shoulders, but I shan't care for that, especially when my own conscience is clear. Now, don't ask me to tell you my secret, for I shan't. It has nothing to do with you or anyone else. All you have to do is to come to-morrow or the next day to my house at Hampstead, and I'll sketch out the plan of campaign."

"What about Mrs. Bedge?"

"She has a fortnight to consider the payment. We shall catch the scoundrel before then--you understand. Eh, what? Good! Now I must be off to Julia's ball. Are you coming?--not asked! Of course; you love Lucy, and that will never do for Julia, who wants her to make a titled match. Good-night! Ha, ha! You have plenty to think about. Don't get brain fever. Good night!"

Then the oddly-assorted pair parted for the time being.