“I wouldn’t say that with a son like Digby,” smiled Strathellan, who was drawing figures idly on his blotting-pad.
“Nevertheless, she’s lucky,” persisted his lordship. “If that child of the Dantons hadn’t been killed, the Groats would have been as poor as Church mice.”
“Did you ever meet Lady Mary, my lord?” asked Vindt.
Lord Waltham nodded.
“I met Lady Mary and the baby,” he said quietly; “I used to be on dining terms with the Dantons. And a beautiful little baby she was.”
“What baby is this?” asked a voice.
Digby Groat had come in in his noiseless fashion, and closed the door of the board-room softly behind him. The question was the first intimation they had of his presence, all except Lord Waltham, who, out of the corner of his eye, had seen his entrance.
“We were talking about Lady Mary’s baby, your cousin.”
Digby Groat smiled contemptuously.
“It will not profit us very much to discuss her.” he said.
“Do you remember her at all, Groat?” asked Waltham.
“Dimly,” said Digby with a careless shrug. “I’m not frightfully keen, on babies. I have a faint recollection that she was once staying in our house, and I associate her with prodigious howling! Is everything all right, Bennett?”
Bennett nodded.
“Here is the paper you asked for.” Digby took it from his pocket and laid it before the lawyer, who unfolded it leisurely and read it with exasperating slowness.
“That is in order,” he said. “Now, gentlemen, we will get to business.”
Such of them who were not already seated about the table, drew up their chairs.
“Your insistence upon having the money in cash has been rather a nuisance, Groat,” said Lord Waltham, picking up a tin box from the floor and opening it. “I hate to have a lot of money in the office; it has meant the employment of two special watchmen.”
“I will pay,” said Digby good-humouredly, watching with greedy eyes as bundle after bundle of notes was laid upon the table.
The lawyer twisted round the paper and offered him a pen.
“You will sign here, Mr. Groat,” he said.
At that moment Vindt turned his head to the clerk who had just entered.
“For me?” he said, indicating the letter in the man’s hand.
“No, sir, for Mr. Bennett.”
Bennett took the note, looked at the name embossed upon the flap, and frowned.
“From Salter,” he said, “and it is marked ‘urgent and important.’”
“Let it wait until after we have finished the business,” said Digby impatiently.
“You had better see what it is,” replied the lawyer, and took out a typewritten sheet of paper. He read it through carefully.
“What is it?” asked Digby.
“I’m afraid this sale cannot go through,” answered the lawyer slowly. “Salter has entered a caveat against the transfer of the property.”
Livid with rage Digby sprang to his feet.
“What right has he?” he demanded savagely. “He is no longer my lawyer: he has no right to act. Who authorized him?”
The lawyer had a queer expression on his face.
“This caveat,” he said, speaking deliberately, “has been entered by Salter on behalf of Dorothy Danton, who, according to the letter, is still alive.”
There was a painful silence, which the voice of Vindt broke.
“So that settles the transfer,” he said. “We cannot go on with this business, you understand, Groat?”
“But I insist on the transfer going through,” cried Digby violently. “The whole thing is a plot got up by that dithering old fool, Salter. Everybody knows that Dorothy Danton is dead! She has been dead for twenty years.”
“Nevertheless,” said Lord Waltham quietly, “we cannot move in face of the caveat. Without being a legal instrument, it places upon the purchasers of the property the fullest responsibility for their purchase.”
“But I will sign the transfer,” said Digby vehemently.
Lord Waltham shook his head.
“It would not matter if you signed twenty transfers,” he said. “If we paid you the money for this property and it proved to be the property of Miss Danton, as undoubtedly it would prove, if she were alive, we, and only we, would be responsible. We should have to surrender the property and look to you to refund us the money we had invested in the estate. No, no, Groat, if it is, as you say, a bluff on the part of Salter—and upon my word, I cannot imagine a man of Salter’s position, age and experience putting up empty bluff—then we can have a meeting on another day and the deal can go through. We are very eager to acquire these properties.”
There was a murmur of agreement from both Strathellan and Vindt.
“But at present, as matters stand, we can do nothing, and you as a business man must recognize our helplessness in the matter.”
Digby was beside himself with fury as he saw the money being put back in the tin box.
“Very well,” he said. His face was pallid and his suppressed rage shook him as with an ague. But he never lost sight of all the possible developments of the lawyer’s action. If he had taken so grave a step in respect to the property, he would take action in other directions, and no time must be lost if he was to anticipate Salter’s next move.
Without another word he turned on his heel and stalked down the stairs into the street. His car was waiting.
“To the Third National Bank,” he said, as he flung himself into its luxurious interior.
He knew that at the Third National Bank was a sum nearly approaching a hundred thousand pounds which his parsimonious mother had accumulated during the period she had been in receipt of the revenues of the Danton estate. Viewing the matter as calmly as he could, he was forced to agree that Salter was not the man who would play tricks or employ the machinery of the law, unless he had behind him a very substantial backing of facts. Dorothy Danton! Where had she sprung from? Who was she? Digby cursed her long and heartily. At any rate, he thought, as his car stopped before the bank premises, he would be on the safe side and get his hands on all the money which was lying loose.
He wished now that when he had sent Villa to Deauville he had taken his mother’s money for the purchase of the gambler’s yacht. Instead of that he had drawn upon the enormous funds of the Thirteen.
He was shown into the manager’s office, and he thought that that gentleman greeted him a little coldly.
“Good morning, Mr. Stevens, I have come to draw out the greater part of my mother’s balance, and I thought I would see you first.”
“I’m glad you did, Mr. Groat,” was the reply. “Will you sit down?” The manager was obviously ill at ease. “The fact is,” he confessed, “I am not in a position to honour any cheques you draw upon this bank.”
“What the devil do you mean?” demanded Digby.
“I am sorry,” said the manager, shrugging his shoulders, “but this morning I have been served with a notice that a caveat has been entered at the Probate Office, preventing the operation of the Danton will in your mother’s favour. I have already informed our head office and they are taking legal opinion, but as Mr. Salter threatens to obtain immediately an injunction unless we agree to comply, it would be madness on my part to let you touch a penny of your mother’s account. Your own account, of course, you can draw upon.”
Digby’s own account contained a respectable sum, he remembered.
“Very well,” he said after consideration. “Will you discover my balance and I will close the account.”