Part 22 (1/2)
”Are you John Ireland?”
”I am. Though I have not the pleasure, madam, of knowing you.”
”I am Daisy Strong, who am shortly to be Cyril Paxton's wife. How dare you, Mr. Ireland, so foully slander him!”
Mr. Ireland showed symptoms of being surprised. He had an eye for a lady, and still more, perhaps, for a pretty girl. And by neither was he accustomed to being addressed in such a strain.
”I trust, madam, that I have not slandered Mr. Paxton.”
”You trust so, do you? Mr. Franklyn, will you come forward, please, instead of hanging behind there in the shadow of Miss Wentworth's skirts, as if you were afraid?”
Mr. Franklyn, thus addressed, came forward, looking, however, as if he would rather not.
”You hear what this person says. And yet you tell me he has slandered Cyril Paxton as foully as he could.”
Mr. Franklyn shot a glance at Mr. Ireland which was meant to be pregnant with meaning. He showed a disposition to hum and to ha.
”My dear Miss Strong, I'm sure you will find that Mr. Ireland is not unreasonable. His only desire is to do his duty.”
Miss Strong stamped her foot upon the floor.
”His duty! to slander a gentleman in whose presence he is not worthy to stand! Because a man calls himself a policeman, and by doubtful methods contrives to earn the money with which to keep himself alive, is such an one ent.i.tled to fling mud at men of stainless honour and untarnished reputation, and then to excuse himself by pretending that flinging mud is his duty? If you, Mr. Franklyn, are afraid of a policeman, merely because he's a policeman, I a.s.sure you I am not. And I take leave to tell Mr. Ireland that there are policemen who are, at least, as much in want of being kept in order as any member of the criminal cla.s.ses by any possibility could be.”
Ireland eyed the eloquent lady as if he were half-puzzled, half-amused.
”I understand your feelings, madam, and I admire your pluck in standing up for Mr. Paxton.”
Again the lady stamped her foot.
”I care nothing for your approval! And it has nothing at all to do with the matter on hand.”
The detective coughed apologetically.
”Perfectly true, madam. But I can't help it. I a.s.sure you I always do admire a young woman who sticks up for her young man when he happens to find himself in a bit of a sc.r.a.pe. But, if you take my tip, Miss Strong, you'll leave us men to manage these sort of things. You'll only do Mr. Paxton harm by interfering. You tell her, Mr. Franklyn, if what I say isn't true.”
Miss Strong turned towards Mr. Ireland, cutting short the words on Franklyn's lips before they had a chance of getting themselves spoken.
”Do not refer to Mr. Franklyn on any matter which concerns me. There is no connection between us. Mr. Franklyn and I are strangers. I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I even think that you may find me almost a match for you.” She turned to Treadwater. ”Is Mr. Paxton stopping in this hotel?”
”He stayed here last night, madam. And he has been here again this evening. At present, he is out.”
”And what is this?”
She motioned towards the open bag, with its contents strewed upon the table.
”That is Mr. Paxton's. Mr. Ireland has forced it open.”
Miss Strong turned towards Ireland--a veritable feminine fury.
”You wretched spy! you cowardly thief! To take advantage of a man's back being turned to poke and pry among his private possessions in order to gratify your curiosity! Is that the science of detection?”