Part 9 (1/2)

Mr. Paxton turned round so quickly that some of the liquor which was in the gla.s.s that he was holding was thrown out upon the floor. The speaker proved to be a rather short and thick-set man, with a stubbly grey beard and whiskers, and a pair of shrewd, brown eyes. Mr. Paxton beheld him with as few signs of satisfaction as he had evinced on first beholding Mr. Lawrence. He tried to pa.s.s off his evident discomposure with a laugh.

”You! You're a pretty sort of fellow to startle a man like that!”

”Did I startle you?”

”When a man's dreaming of angels, he's easily startled. What's your liquid?”

”Scotch, cold. Who was that you were talking to just now?”

Mr. Paxton shot at the stranger a keen, inquisitorial glance.

”What do you mean?”

”Weren't you talking to somebody as I came in?--two men, weren't there?”

”Oh yes! One of them I never met in my life before, and I never want to meet again. The other, the younger, I was introduced to yesterday.”

”The younger--what's his name?”

”Lawrence. Do you know him?”

The stranger appeared not to notice the second hurried, almost anxious look which Mr. Paxton cast in his direction.

”I fancied I did. But I don't know any one of the name of Lawrence. I must have been wrong.”

Mr. Paxton applied himself to his gla.s.s. It appeared, he told himself, that he was in bad luck's way. Only one person could have been more unwelcome just at the moment than Mr. Lawrence had been, and that person had actually followed hard on Mr. Lawrence's heels. As is the way with men of his cla.s.s, who frequent the highways and the byways of great cities, Mr. Paxton had a very miscellaneous acquaintance. Among them were not a few officers of police. He had rather prided himself on this fact--as men of his sort are apt to do. But now he almost wished that he had never been conscious that such a thing as a policeman existed in the world; for there--at the moment when he was least wanted--standing at his side, was one of the most famous of London detectives; a man who was high in the confidence of the dignitaries at the ”Yard”; a man, too, with whom he had had one or two familiar pa.s.sages, and whom he could certainly not treat with the same stand-off air with which he had treated Mr. Lawrence.

He understood now why the a.s.sociates had stood not on the order of their going; it was not fear of him, as in his conceit he had supposed, which had sped their heels; it was fear of John Ireland.

Gentlemen of Mr. Lawrence's kidney were pretty sure to know a man of Mr. Ireland's reputation, at any rate by sight. The ”office” had been given him that a ”tec.” was in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Lawrence had taken himself away just in time, as he hoped, to escape recognition.

That that hope was vain was obvious from what John Ireland had said.

In spite of his disclaiming any knowledge of a man named Lawrence, Mr.

Paxton had little doubt that both men had been ”spotted.”

A wild impulse came to him. He seemed to be drifting, each second, into deeper and deeper waters. Why not take advantage of what might, after all, be another rope thrown out to him by chance? Why not make a clean breast of everything to Ireland? Why not go right before it was, indeed, too late--return her diamonds to the sorrowing d.u.c.h.ess, and make an end of his wild dreams of fortune? No; that he would--he could not do. At least not yet. He had committed himself to Daisy, to Miss Wentworth. There was plenty of time. He could, if he chose, play the part of harlequin, and with a touch of his magic wand at any time change the scene. He even tried to flatter himself that he might play the part of an amateur detective, and track the criminals on original--and Fabian!--lines of his own; but self-flattery of that sort was too gross even for his digestion.

”Nice affair that of the d.u.c.h.ess of Datchet's diamonds.”

The gla.s.s almost dropped from Mr. Paxton's hand. The utterance of the words at that identical instant was of course but a coincidence; but it was a coincidence of a kind which made it extremely difficult for him to retain even a vestige of self-control. Fortunately, perhaps, Mr. Ireland appeared to be unconscious of his agitation. Putting his gla.s.s down on the bar-counter, he twisted it round and round by the stem. He tried to modulate his voice into a tone of complete indifference.

”The d.u.c.h.ess of Datchet's diamonds? What do you mean?”

”Haven't you heard?”

Mr. Paxton hesitated. He felt that it might be just as well not to feign too much innocence in dealing with John Ireland.

”Saw something about it as I came down in the train.”

”I thought you had. Came down from town?”