Mr. Harry, whom he had thought of as a boy, was a grave man of fifty, and apparently the younger brother of the eldest partner.
“We have found the log of the Battledore,” said that gentleman, “but I have forgotten the date.”
“June 21st,” said Jim.
The log lay open upon the big table, and its presence brought an atmosphere of romance into this quiet orderly office.
“Here we are,” said the partner. “Battledore left Tilbury 9 a.m. on the tide. Wind east by south-east, sea smooth, hazy.” He ran his fingers down. “This is what I think you want.”
For Jim it was a moment of intense drama. The partner was reading some preliminary and suddenly he came to the entry which was to make all the difference in the world to the woman whom Jim loved dearer than life.
“‘Heavy fog, speed reduced at 11.50 to half. Reduced to quarter speed at 12.1. Bosun reported that we had run down small rowing boat and that he had seen two persons in the water. Able seaman Grant went overboard and rescued child. The second person was not found. Speed increased, endeavoured to speak Dungeness, but weather too hazy for flag signals’—this was before the days of wireless, you must understand, Mr. Steele.” Jim nodded.
“‘Sex of child discovered, girl, apparent age a few months. Child handed to stewardess.’”
Entry followed entry, but there was no further reference to the child until he came to Funchal.
“In the island of Madeira,” he explained. “‘Arrived Funchal 6 a.m. Reported recovery of child to British Consul, who said he would cable to London.’”
The next entry was: “Dakka—a port on the West Coast of Africa and French protectorate,” said the partner. “‘Received cable from British Consul at Funchal saying no loss of child reported to London police.’”
There was no other entry which affected Jim until one on the third day before the ship arrived at Cape Town.
“‘Mr. Weldon, a Cape Town resident who is travelling with his wife for her health, has offered to adopt the child picked up by us on June 21st, having recently lost one of his own. Mr. Weldon being known to the Captain and vouched for by Canon Jesson’—this was apparently a fellow-passenger of his,” explained the partner—“‘the child was handed to his care, on condition that the matter was reported to the authorities in Cape Town.’”
A full description of the size, weight, and colouring of the little waif followed, and against the query “Marks on Body” were the words “Scar on right wrist, doctor thinks the result of a recent burn.”
Jim drew a long sigh.
“I cannot tell you gentlemen how grateful I am to you. You have righted a great wrong and have earned the gratitude of the child who is now a woman.”
“Do you think that this is the young lady?”
Jim nodded.
“I am sure,” he said quietly. “The log of Captain Pinnings supplies the missing link of evidence. We may have to ask you to produce this log in court, but I hope that the claim of our client will not be disputed.”
He walked down Threadneedle Street, treading on air, and the fact that while he had gained for Eunice—her name was Dorothy now, but she would be always Eunice to him—a fortune, he had lost the greatest fortune that could be bestowed upon a man, did not disturb his joy.
He had made a rough copy of the log, and with this in his hand he drove to Septimus Salter’s office and without a word laid the extracts before him.
Mr. Salter read, and as he read his eyes lit up.
“The whole thing is remarkably clear,” he said; “the log proves the identity of Lady Mary’s daughter. Your investigations are practically complete?”
“Not yet, sir,” smiled Jim. “We have first to displace Jane Groat and her son,” he hesitated, “and we must persuade Miss Danton to leave that house.”
“In that case,” said the lawyer, rising, “I think an older man’s advice will be more acceptable than yours, my boy, and I’ll go with you.”
A new servant opened the door, and almost at the sound of the knock, Digby came out of his study, urbane and as perfectly groomed as usual.
“I want to see Miss Weldon,” said the lawyer, and Digby stiffened at the sight of him. He would have felt more uncomfortable if he had known what was in Salter’s mind.
Digby was looking at him straightly; his whole attitude, thought Jim, was one of tense anxiety.
“I am sorry you cannot see Miss Weldon,” he said, speaking slowly. “She left with my mother by an early Continental train and at this moment, I should imagine, is somewhere in the region of Paris.”
“That is a damned lie!” said Jim Steele calmly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THEY stood confronting one another, two men with murder in their hearts.
“It is a lie!” repeated Jim. “Miss Weldon is either here or she has been taken to that hell house of yours in Somerset!”
For the time being Digby Groat was less concerned by Jim’s vehement insult than he was by the presence of the lawyer.
“So you lend yourself to this blackguardly outrage,” he sneered. “I should have thought a man of your experience would have refused to have been made a dupe of by this fellow. Anyway,” he turned to Jim, “Miss Weldon wants no more to do with you. She has told me about that quarrel, and really, Steele, you have behaved very badly.”
The man was lying. Jim did not think twice about that. Eunice would never have made a confidant of him.
“What is your interest in Miss Weldon?” asked Digby, addressing the lawyer.
“Outside of a human interest, none,” said old Salter, and Jim was staggered.
“But—” he began.
“I think we had better go, Steele,” Salter interrupted him with a warning glance.
They were some distance from the house before Jim spoke.
“But why didn’t you tell him, Mr. Salter, that Eunice was the heiress of the Danton fortune?”
Salter looked at him with an odd queer expression in his bright blue eyes.
“Suppose all you fear has happened,” he said gently. “Suppose this man is the villain that we both believe he is, and the girl is in his power. What would be, the consequence of my telling him that Eunice Weldon was in a position to strip him of every penny he possesses, to turn him out of his house and reduce him to penury?”
Jim bit his lip.
“I’m sorry, sir.” he said humbly. “I’m an impetuous fool.”
“So long as Digby Groat does not know that Eunice threatens his position she is comparatively safe. At any rate, her life is safe. Once we let him learn all that we know, she is doomed.”
Jim nodded. “Do you think, then, that she is in real danger?” he asked.
“I am certain that Mr. Digby Groat would not hesitate at murder to serve his ends,” said the lawyer gruffly.
They did not speak again until they were in the office in Marlborough Street, and then Jim threw himself down in a chair with a groan and covered his face with his hands.
“It seems as if we are powerless,” he said bitterly, and then, looking up, “Surely, Mr. Salter, the law is greater than Digby Groat. Are there no processes we can set in motion to pull him down?” It was very seldom old Septimus Salter smoked in his office, but this was an occasion for an extraordinary happening. He took from a cabinet an old meerschaum pipe and polishing it on the sleeve of his broad-cloth coat, slowly filled it, packing down the straggling strands of tobacco which overflowed the pipe, with exasperating calmness.
“The law, my boy, is greater than Digby Groat, and greater than you or I. Sometimes ignorant people laugh at it, sometimes they sneer at it, generally they curse it. But there it is, the old dilatory machinery, grinding slow and grinding exceedingly small. It is not confined to the issue of search warrants, of arrest and judgments. It has a thousand weapons to strike at the cheat and the villain, and, by God, every one of those weapons shall be employed against Digby Groat!”