“It sailed with the tide, which was apparently about eight o’clock in the morning of the 21st June. Let me see,” said the partner, rising and going to a big chart that hung on the wall, “that would bring her up to the North Foreland Light at about twelve o’clock. What time did the accident occur?”
“At noon,” said Jim huskily, and the partners looked at one another.
“I don’t remember anything peculiar being reported on that voyage,” said the senior slowly.
“You were in Switzerland at the time,” said the other, “and so was I. Mr. Mansar was in charge.”
“Is Mr. Mansar here?” asked Jim eagerly.
“He is dead,” said the partner gently. “Yes, poor Mr. Mansar is dead. He died at a comparatively early age of sixty-three, a very amiable man, who played the piano remarkably well.”
“The violin,” murmured his partner.
Jim was not interested in the musical accomplishments of the deceased Mr. Mansar.
“Is there no way of finding out what happened on that voyage?”
It was the second of the partners who spoke.
“We can produce the log book of the Battledore.”
“I hope we can,” corrected the other. “The Battledore was sunk during the Great War, torpedoed off the Needles, but Captain Pinnings, who was in command of her at the time, is alive and hearty.”
“And his log book?” asked Jim.
“That we must investigate. We keep all log books at the Liverpool office, and I will write tonight to ask our managing clerk to send the book down, if it is in his possession.”
“This is very urgent,” said Jim earnestly. “You have been so kind that I would not press you if it were not a matter of the greatest importance. Would it be possible for me to go to Liverpool and see the log?”
“I think I can save you that trouble,” said the elder of the two, whose names Jim never knew. “Mr. Harry is coming down to London tomorrow, isn’t he?”
His friend nodded.
“Well, he can bring the book, if it exists. I will tell the clerk to telephone to Liverpool to that effect,” and with this Jim had to content himself, though it meant another twenty-four hours’ delay.
He reported progress to the lawyer, when he determined upon making a bold move. His first business was the protection of Eunice, and although he did not imagine that any immediate danger threatened her, she must be got out of 409, Grosvenor Square, at the earliest opportunity.
If Lady Mary were only in London, how simple it would be! As it was, he had neither the authority to command nor the influence to request.
He drove up to 409, Grosvenor Square, and was immediately shown into Digby Groat’s study.
“How do you do, Mr. Steele,” said that bland gentleman. “Take a seat, will you? It is much more comfortable than hiding under the table,” he added, and Jim smiled.
“Now, what can I do for you?”
“I want to see Miss Weldon,” said Jim.
“I believe the lady is out; but I will inquire.”
He rang the bell and immediately a servant answered the summons.
“Will you ask Miss Weldon to step down here?”
“It is not necessary that I should see her here,” said Jim.
“Don’t worry,” smiled Digby. “I will make my exit at the proper moment.”
The maid returned, however, with the news that the lady had gone out.
“Very well,” said Jim, taking up his hat, and with a smile as bland as his unwilling host’s, “I will wait outside until she comes in.”
“Admirable persistence!” murmured Digby. “Perhaps I can find her.”
He went out and returned again in a few minutes with Eunice.
“The maid was quite misinformed,” he said urbanely. “Miss Weldon had not gone out.”
He favoured her with a little bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Eunice stood with her hands behind her, looking at the man on whom her hopes and thoughts had centred, and about whose conduct such a storm was still raging in her bosom.
“You want to see me, Mr. Steele?”
Her attitude shook his self-possession and drove from his mind all the carefully reasoned arguments he had prepared.
“I want you to leave this house, Eunice,” he said.
“Have you a new reason?” she asked, though she hated herself for the sarcasm.
“I have the best of reasons,” he said doggedly. “I am satisfied that you are the daughter of Lady Mary Danton.”
Again she smiled.
“I think you’ve used that argument before, haven’t you?”
“Listen, Eunice, I beg of you,” he pleaded. “I can prove that you are Lady Mary’s daughter. That scar on your wrist was made by Digby Groat when you were a baby. And there is no Eunice Weldon. We have proved that she died in Cape Town a year after you were born.”
She regarded him steadily, and his heart sank.
“That is very romantic,” she said, “and have you anything further to say?”
“Nothing, except the lady you saw in my room was your mother.”
Her eyes opened wider and then he saw a little smile come and go like a ray of winter sunshine on her lips.
“Really, Jim,” she said, “you should write stories. And if it interests you, I might tell you that I am leaving this house in a few days. I am going back to my old employment. I don’t want you to explain who the woman was who has the misfortune to be without a telephone and the good fortune to have the key of your flat,” she said, her anger swamping the pity she had for him. “I only want to tell you that you have shaken my faith in men more than Digby Groat or any other man could have done. You have hurt me beyond forgiveness.”
For a moment her voice quivered, and then with an effort of will she pulled herself together and walked to the door. “Good-bye, Jim,” she said, and was gone.
He stood as she had left him, stunned, unable to believe his ears. Her scorn struck him like a whip, the injustice of her view of him deprived him of speech.
For a second a blinding wave of anger drowned all other emotions, but this passed. He could have gone now, for there was no hope of seeing her again and explaining even if he had been willing to offer any explanation.
But he stayed on. He was anxious to meet Digby Groat and find from his attitude what part he had played in forming the girl’s mind. The humour of the situation struck him and he laughed, though his laughter was filtered through a pain that was so nearly physical that he could not distinguish the one from the other.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE end was coming. Digby Groat took too sane a view of things to mistake the signs.
For two years he had been in negotiation with a land agent in San Paulo and had practically completed the purchase of an estate. By subterranean methods he had skilfully disguised the identity of the purchaser, and on that magnificent ranch he intended to spend a not unpleasant life. It might not come to a question of flight, in which case the ranch would be a diversion from the humdrum life of England. And more than ever was he determined that Eunice Weldon should accompany him, and share, at any rate, a year of his life. Afterwards—he shrugged his shoulders. Women had come into his life before, had at first fascinated, and then bored him, and had disappeared from his ken. Probably Eunice would go the same way, though he could not contemplate the possibility at the moment.
The hours of the morning passed all too slowly for Jim Steele. The partner brothers had said that their “Mr. Harry” would arrive at one o’clock, and punctually at that hour Jim was waiting in the outer office.
Mr. Harry’s train, however, must have been late. It was nearer two when he came in, followed by a porter carrying a thick parcel under his arm. Presently the porter came out. “Will you go in, sir,” he said respectfully, and Jim stepped quickly into the room.