Part 15 (1/2)

His position was indeed agonizing, and, in the circ.u.mstances, a stronger heart might have blanched at the encounter.

When Cranley last met Maitland, he had been the guest of that philanthropist, and he had gone from his table to swindle his fellow-revellers. What other things he had done--things in which Maitland was concerned--the reader knows, or at least suspects. But it was not these deeds which troubled Mr. Cranley, for these he knew were undetected. It was that affair of the baccarat which unmanned him.

There was nothing for it but to face Maitland and the situation.

”Let me introduce you--” said Mrs. St. John Deloraine.

”There is no need,” interrupted Maitland. ”Mr. Cranley and I have known each other for some time. I don't think we have met,” he added, looking at Cranley, ”since you dined with me at the Olympic, and we are not likely to meet again, I'm afraid; for to-morrow, as I have come to tell Mrs. Si John Deloraine, I go to Paris on business of importance.”

Mr. Cranley breathed again; it was obvious that Maitland, living out of the world as he did, and concerned (as Cranley well knew him to be) with private affairs of an urgent character, had never been told of the trouble at the c.o.c.kpit, or had, in his absent fas.h.i.+on, never attended to what he might have heard with the hearing of the ear. As to Paris, he had the best reason for guessing why Maitland was bound thither, as he was the secret source of the information on which Maitland proposed to act.

At luncheon--which, like the dinner described by the American guest, was ”luscious and abundant”--Mr. Cranley was more sparkling than the champagne, and made even Maitland laugh. He recounted little philanthropic misadventures of his own--cases in which he had been humorously misled by the _Captain Wraggs_ of this world, or beguiled by the authors of that polite correspondence--begging letters.

When luncheon was over, and when Maitland was obliged, reluctantly, to go (for he liked Mrs. St. John Deloraine's company very much), Cranley, who had determined to see him out, shook hands in a very cordial way with the Fellow of St. Gatien's.

”And when are we likely to meet again?” he asked.

”I really don't know,” said Maitland. ”I have business in Paris, and I cannot say how long I may be detained on the Continent.”

”No more can I,” said Mr. Cranley to himself; ”but I hope you won't return in time to bother me with your blundering inquiries, if ever you have the luck to return at all.”

But while he said this to himself, to Maitland he only wished a good voyage, and particularly recommended to him a comedy (and a _comedienne_) at the Palais Royal.

CHAPTER X.--Traps.

The day before the encounter with Mr. Cranley at the house of the lady of _The Bunhouse_, Barton, when he came home from a round of professional visits, had found Maitland waiting in his chill, unlighted lodgings. Of late, Maitland had got into the habit of loitering there, discussing and discussing all the mysteries which made him feel that he was indeed ”moving about in worlds not realized.” Keen as was the interest which Barton took in the labyrinth of his friend's affairs, he now and again wearied of Maitland, and of a conversation that ever revolved round the same fixed but otherwise uncertain points.

”Hullo, Maitland; glad to see you,” he observed, with some shade of hypocrisy. ”Anything new to-day?”

”Yes,” said Maitland; ”I really do think I have a clew at last.”

”Well, wait a bit till they bring the candles,” said Barton, groaning as the bell-rope came away in his hands. ”Bring lights, please, and tea, and stir up the fire, Jemima, my friend,” he remarked, when the blackened but alert face of the little slavey appeared at the door.

”Yes, Dr. Barton, in a minute, sir,” answered Jemima, who greatly admired the Doctor, and in ten minutes the dismal lodgings looked almost comfortable.

”Now for your clew, old man,” exclaimed Barton, as he handed Maitland a cup of his peculiar mixture, very weak, with plenty of milk and no sugar. ”Oh, Ariadne, what a boon that clew of yours has been to the detective mind! To think that, without the Minotaur, the police would probably never have hit on that invaluable expression, 'the police have a clew.'”

Maitland thought this was trifling with the subject.

”This advertis.e.m.e.nt,” he said, gravely, ”appears to me undoubtedly to refer to the miscreant who carried off Margaret, poor girl.”

”Does it, by Jove?” cried Barton, with some eagerness this time. ”Let's have a look at it!”

This was what he read aloud:

”Bearskin Coat.--The gentleman travelling with a young lady, who, on Feb. 19th, left a bearskin coat at the Hotel Alsace and Lorraine, Avenue de l'Opera, Paris, is requested to remove it, or it will be sold to defray expenses.

”Dupin.”

”This _may_ mean business,” he said, ”or it may not. In the first place, is there such an hotel in Paris as the 'Alsace et Lorraine,' and is M.

Dupin the proprietor?”