“It would be useless,” she assured him sadly.
“You cannot be sure of that,” he insisted. “If this espionage gets on your nerves, I believe that I have influence enough to have it removed, provided that you will let me bring a friend of mine to see you here and ask you a few questions.”
She shook her head.
“It is not the espionage alone,” she declared. “I am confronted with something altogether different, something about which I cannot speak.”
“Is this man Jocelyn Thew connected with it in any way?” he demanded.
She winced.
“Why should you ask that question?”
“Because it is perfectly clear,” he continued, “that Jocelyn Thew exercises some sort of unholy influence over you, an influence, I may add, which it is my intention to destroy.”
She smiled bitterly.
“If you can destroy anything that Jocelyn Thew means to keep alive,” she began —
“Oh, please don’t believe that Jocelyn Thew is infallible,” he interrupted. “I have had a long experience of diplomatists and plotters and even criminals, and I can assure you that no man breathing is possessed of more than ordinary human powers. Jocelyn Thew has brought it off against us this time, but then, you see, one must lose a trick now and then. It is the next step which counts.”
“Oh, the next step will be all right!” she replied, with a hard little laugh. “He has brought his spoils to England, although there must have been twenty or thirty detectives on board, and you won’t be able to stop his disposing of them exactly as he likes.”
“I don’t agree with you,” he assured her confidently. “That, however, is not what I want to talk about. You are in a false position. In the struggle which is going on now, your heart and soul should be with us and against Jocelyn Thew.”
Her eyes were lit with a momentary terror.
“You don’t suppose for a moment,” she said, “that my sympathies are not with my own country and our joint cause?”
“I don’t,” he replied. “On the other hand, your actions should follow upon your sympathies. There is something sinister in your present state. I want you to tell me just what the terror is that is sitting in your heart, that has changed you like this. Jocelyn Thew has some hold upon you. If so, you need a man to stand by your side. Can’t you treat me as a friend?”
She softened at his words. For a moment she sat quite silent.
“I can only repeat to you what I told you once before,” she said. “If you are picturing Jocelyn Thew to yourself as a blackmailer, or anything of that sort, you are wrong. I am under the very deepest obligations to him.”
“But surely,” he protested, “you have paid your debt, whatever it was?”
“He admits it.”
“And yet the terror remains?”
“It remains,” she repeated sadly.
Crawshay meditated for a moment.
“Look here, Miss Beverley,” he said, “I have a friend who is chief in this country of a department which I will not name. Will you dine with me to-night and let me invite him to meet you?”
She shook her head.
“It is a very kind thought,” she declared, “but I am engaged. Mr. Jocelyn Thew is dining here.”
Crawshay’s face for a moment was very black indeed. He rose slowly to his feet.
“I know that you mean to be kind,” she continued, “and I fear that I must seem very ungrateful. Believe me, I am not. I am simply faced with one of those terrible problems which must be solved, and yet which admit of no help from any living person.”
Crawshay’s attitude had grown perceptibly stiffer.
“I am very sorry indeed, Miss Beverley,” he said, “that you cannot give me your confidence. I am very sorry for my own sake, and I am sorry for yours.”
“Is that a threat?” she asked.
“You know the old proverb,” he answered, as he bowed over her fingers. “‘Those who are not on my side are against me.’”
“You are going to treat me as an enemy?”
“Until you prove yourself to be a friend.”
.
CHAPTER XIX
At a quarter to eight that evening, a young man who had made fitful appearances in the lounge of Claridge’s Restaurant during the last half-hour went to the telephone and rang up a certain West End number.
“Are these Mr. Crawshay’s rooms?” he asked.
“Mr. Crawshay speaking,” was the reply.
“Brightman there?”
Crawshay turned away from the telephone and handed the receiver to the detective.
“What news, Henshaw?” the latter enquired.
“Miss Beverley dines at her usual table, sir, at eight o’clock,” was the reply. “The table is set for three.”
“For three?” Brightman exclaimed.
“For three?” Crawshay echoed, turning from the sideboard, where he had been in the act of mixing some cocktails.
“You are quite sure the third place isn’t a mistake?” Brightman asked.
“Quite sure, sir,” was the prompt reply. “I am acquainted with one of the head waiters here, and I understand that two gentlemen are expected.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing, sir. Miss Beverley sent away two parcels this afternoon, which were searched downstairs. They were quite unimportant.”
“I shall expect to hear from you again,” Brightman directed, “within half an hour. If the third person is a stranger, try and find out his name.”
“I’ll manage that all right, Mr. Brightman. The young lady has just come down. I’ll be getting back into the lounge.”
Brightman turned around to Crawshay, who was in the act of shaking the cocktails.
“A third party,” he observed.
“Interesting,” Crawshay declared, “very interesting! Perhaps the intermediary. It might possibly be Doctor Gant, though.”
The detective shook his head.
“Three quarters of an hour ago,” he said, “Doctor Gant went into Gatti’s for a chop. He was quite alone and in morning clothes.”
Crawshay poured the amber-coloured liquid which he had been shaking into a frosted glass, handed it to his companion and filled one for himself.
“Here’s hell to Jocelyn Thew, anyway!” he exclaimed, with a note of real feeling in his tone.
“If I thought,” Brightman declared, “that drinking that toast would bring him any nearer to it, I should become a confirmed drunkard. As it is, sir — my congratulations! A very excellent mixture!”
He set down his glass empty and Crawshay turned away to light a cigarette.
“No,” he decided, “I don’t think that it would be Doctor Gant. Jocelyn Thew has finished with him all right. He did his job well and faithfully, but he was only a hired tool. Speculation, however, is useless. We must wait for Henshaw’s news. Perhaps this third guest, whoever he may be, may give us a clue as to Jocelyn Thew’s influence over Miss Beverley.”
The telephone rang a few minutes later. Crawshay this time took up the receiver, and Brightman the spare one which hung by the side. It was Henshaw speaking.
“Miss Beverley has just gone in to dinner,” he announced. “She is accompanied by Mr. Jocelyn Thew and a young officer in the uniform of a Flight Commander.”
“What is his name?” Crawshay asked.
“I have had no opportunity of finding out yet,” was the reply. “I believe that he is staying in the hotel, and he seems to be on very intimate terms with Miss Beverley.”
“On no account lose sight of the party,” Crawshay directed, “and try and find out the young soldier’s name. Wasn’t he introduced to Jocelyn Thew?”
“Not a bit of it,” was the prompt reply. “They shook hands very much like old friends.”
“Go back and watch,” Crawshay directed. “I must know his name. The sooner you can find out, the better. I want to get away within a few minutes, if I can.”