Part 13 (1/2)

”Money's no object to you, I reckon, mister?” asked Melky, with a shrewd glance at the young Scotsman's evident signs of prosperity.

”Not in reason,” answered Purdie.

”Then there's the Great Western Hotel, at the end o' Praed Street,”

said Melky. ”That'll suit a young gentleman like you, mister, down to the ground. And you'll be right on the spot!”

”Come with me, then,” said Purdie. ”And then to the police.”

Half-an-hour's private conversation with the police authorities enabled Purdie to put some different ideas into the official heads. They began to look at matters in a new light. Here was a wealthy young Scottish manufacturer, a person of standing and position, who was able to vouch for Andrew Lauriston in more ways than one, who had known him from boyhood, had full faith in him and in his word, and was certain that all that Lauriston had said about the rings and about his finding of Daniel Multenius would be found to be absolutely true. They willingly agreed to move no further in the matter until Lauriston's return--and Purdie noticed, not without a smile, that they pointedly refrained from asking where he had gone to. He came out from that interview with Ayscough in attendance upon him--and Melky, waiting without, saw that things had gone all right.

”You might let me have your London address, sir,” said Ayscough. ”I might want to let you know something.”

”Great Western Hotel,” answered Purdie. ”I shall stay there until Lauriston's return, and until this matter's entirely cleared up, as far as he's concerned. Come there, if you want me. All right,” he continued, as he and Melky walked away from the police-station. ”They took my word for it!--they'll do nothing until Lauriston comes back.

Now then, you know this neighbourhood, and I don't--show me the way to Suss.e.x Square--I'm going to call on Mr. Levendale at once.”

John Purdie had a double object in calling on Mr. Spencer Levendale. He had mentioned to Melky that when he met Levendale in the Highlands, Levendale, who was a widower, had his children and their governess with him. But he had not mentioned that he, Purdie, had fallen in love with the governess, and that one of his objects in coming to London just then was to renew his acquaintance with her. It was chiefly of the governess that he was thinking as he stood on the steps of the big house in Suss.e.x Square--perhaps, in a few minutes, he would see her again.

But Purdie was doomed to see neither Mr. Spencer Levendale nor the pretty governess that day. Mr. Levendale, said the butler, was on business in the city and was to dine out that evening: Miss Bennett had taken the two children to see a relative of theirs at Hounslow, and would not return until late. So Purdie, having pencilled his London address on them, left cards for Mr. Levendale and Miss Bennett, and, going back to his hotel, settled himself in his quarters to await developments. He spent the evening in reading the accounts of the inquest on Daniel Multenius--in more than one of the newspapers they were full and circ.u.mstantial, and it needed little of his shrewd perception to convince him that his old schoolmate stood in considerable danger if he failed to establish his owners.h.i.+p of the rings.

He had finished breakfast next morning and was thinking of strolling round to Melky Rubinstein's lodgings, to hear if any news had come from Lauriston, when a waiter brought him Ayscough's card, saying that its presenter was waiting for him in the smoking-room. Purdie went there at once: the detective, who looked unusually grave and thoughtful, drew him aside into a quiet part of the room.

”There's a strange affair occurred during the night, Mr. Purdie,” said Ayscough, when they were alone. ”And it's my opinion it's connected with this Multenius affair.”

”What is it?” asked Purdie.

”This,” replied Ayscough. ”A Praed Street tradesman--in a small way--was picked up, dying, in a quiet street off Maida Vale, at twelve o'clock last night, and he died soon afterwards. And--he'd been poisoned!--but how, the doctors can't yet tell.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE CALL FOR HELP

Purdie, whose temperament inclined him to slowness and deliberation in face of any grave crisis, motioned the detective to take a seat in the quiet corner of the smoking-room, into which they had retreated, and sat down close by him.

”Now, to begin with,” he said, ”why do you think this affair is connected with the affair of the old p.a.w.n-broker? There must be some link.”

”There is a link, sir,” answered Ayscough. ”The man was old Daniel Multenius's next door neighbour: name of Parslett--James Parslett, fruit and vegetable dealer. Smallish way of business, but well known enough in that quarter. Now, I'll explain something to you. I'm no hand at drawing,” continued the detective, ”but I think I can do a bit of a rough sketch on this sc.r.a.p of paper which will make clear to you the lie of the land. These two lines represent Praed Street. Here, where I make this cross, is Daniel Multenius's p.a.w.nshop. The front part of it--the jeweller's shop--looks out on Praed Street. At the side is a narrow pa.s.sage or entry: from that you get access to the pledge-office.

Now then, Multenius's premises run down one side of this pa.s.sage: Parslett's run down the other. Parslett's house has a side-door into it, exactly opposite the door into Multenius's pledge office. Is that clear, Mr. Purdie?”

”Quite!” answered Purdie. ”I understand it exactly.”

”Then my theory is, that Parslett saw the real murderer of Daniel Multenius come out of Multenius's side-door, while he, Parslett, was standing at his own; that he recognized him, that he tried to blackmail him yesterday, and that the man contrived to poison him, in such a fas.h.i.+on that Parslett died shortly after leaving him,” said Ayscough, confidently. ”It's but a theory--but I'll lay anything I'm not far out in it!”

”What reason have you for thinking that Parslett blackmailed the murderer?” asked Purdie.

”This!” answered the detective, with something of triumph in his tone.

”I've been making some enquiries already this morning, early as it is.

When Parslett was picked up and carried to the hospital--this St.

Mary's Hospital, close by here--he was found to have fifty pounds in gold in his pocket. Now, according to Parslett's widow, whom I've seen this morning, Parslett was considerably hard up yesterday. Trade hasn't been very good with him of late, and she naturally knows his circ.u.mstances. He went out of the house last night about nine o'clock, saying he was going to have a stroll round, and the widow says she's certain he'd no fifty pounds on him when he left her--it would be a wonder, she says, if he'd as much as fifty s.h.i.+llings! Now then, Mr.