Part 37 (1/2)

The man I had never seen before. He appeared to be of about medium height; slim, with a sallow skin; dark, sleepy eyes, which suggested the foreigner; a mouth that, straight and firm though it was, turned up a little at the corners, as though in contradiction of his somewhat indolent general appearance. He was exceedingly well-dressed and carried himself with the quiet a.s.surance of a man accustomed to moving in the world.

”Most interesting!” Mr. Bundercombe murmured, having with an effort withdrawn his eyes from the pair. ”The girl you doubtless recognize. She was once a typist in the office of Messrs. Harding & Densmore. She was quite lately, as I dare say you remember, able to give me some very useful information; in fact it is through her that Mr. Stanley did not leave this country for South Africa with a hundred pounds in his pocket.”

”And the man?” I asked.

Mr. Bundercombe was thoroughly enjoying himself. He drew his chair a little closer to mine and waited until he was quite sure that no one was within earshot.

”The man,” he replied, ”is one of the world's most famous criminals.”

”He doesn't look it,” I remarked, glancing across the room with some interest.

Mr. Bundercombe smiled.

”Great criminals are not all of the same type,” he reminded me reprovingly. ”That is where you people who don't understand the cult of criminology make your foolish mistakes. Our friend opposite is, without a doubt, of gentle though not of aristocratic birth. I know nothing of his bringing up, but his instincts do all that is necessary for him. The first time I saw him was in one of the criminal courts in New York. He was being tried for his life for an attempted robbery in Fifth Avenue and the murder of a policeman. He defended himself and did it brilliantly. In the end he got off. There is scarcely a person, however, who doubts but that he was guilty.”

I looked across at the subject of our discussion with renewed interest.

”He shot him, I suppose?” I asked.

”On the contrary,” Mr. Bundercombe replied, ”he throttled him. The man has the sinews of an ox. The second time I saw him was at a dancing-hall in New York. He was there with a very gay party indeed; but one of them, the wealthiest, mysteriously disappeared. Rodwell--Dagger Rodwell was his nickname--came to England. I saw him once or twice just before I visited you down in Bedfords.h.i.+re. Cullen warned me off him, however; wouldn't let me have a word to say to him.”

”He doesn't sound the best companion in the world for your little typist friend,” I remarked.

Mr. Bundercombe glanced across the room and at that moment the girl noticed him. She bowed and waved her hand. Mr. Bundercombe responded gallantly.

”I fancy,” he murmured, ”that she can take care of herself. Come, I really feel that I am in an interesting atmosphere once more.”

Mr. Bundercombe's deportment was certainly more cheerful. For the last week or two he had been depressed. He had paid visits with Eve and myself, and devoted a reasonable amount of time to his wife. The demands on his complete respectability, however, had been irksome. He was too obviously finding no savor in life.

I really was not altogether sorry at first to notice the improvement in his spirits, though my sentiments changed when, a little later in the evening, the girl opposite left her place and came over to us. She greeted Mr. Bundercombe with the most brilliant of smiles and he held her hand quite as long as was necessary. He presented me and I learned that her name was Miss Blanche Spencer.

”I must not stay long,” she said, laughing. ”The gentleman I am with is a sort of cousin of mine and we don't get on very well; but I mustn't be rude.”

Mr. Bundercombe and she seemed to have a good deal to say to each other and presently I noticed that their heads were drawing closer together. The girl dropped her voice. She was proposing something to which Mr.

Bundercombe was listening with keen interest. I heard him sigh.

”If it weren't for certain changes,” he explained regretfully, ”I guess I wouldn't hesitate a moment. But--”

I heard a whispered reference to myself as his daughter's fiance and an allusion to the continued presence of his wife in London. She nodded sympathetically.

”Now if there were any other way,” Mr. Bundercombe concluded, ”in which I could still further show my grat.i.tude to you personally for a certain little matter, why I'm all for hearing about it. I consider the balance is still on my side.”

She laughed.

”You're really rather a dear!” she declared. ”Do you know I am thinking of starting in business for myself?”

”Where, and what as?” Mr. Bundercombe inquired.

I shook open an evening paper and heard no more. The girl's leavetaking, however, a few minutes later, was both reluctant and impressive. I felt it my duty to allude to the matter as soon as we were alone.