THE RED LODGE

A Mystery of Campden Hill

BY
VICTOR BRIDGES

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1924

COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
First Edition

TO
MARGARET

BOOKS BY
VICTOR BRIDGES

Another Man's Shoes
Greensea Island: A Mystery of the Essex Coast
Mr. Lyndon at Liberty
Rogue by Compulsion
The Cruise of the Scandal and Other Stories
The Lady from Long Acre
The Man from Nowhere
The Red Lodge

THE RED LODGE

A Mystery of Campden Hill

CHAPTER ONE

A dark green Rolls-Royce limousine slid round the corner of Sydney Place and, proceeding a few hundred yards along the Fulham Road, drew up in front of St. Christopher's Hospital. It had scarcely stopped before the door opened and its solitary occupant—a tall, well-dressed man of about fifty—stepped out on to the pavement.

"You can wait here, Simmons," he said, addressing the chauffeur. "I shan't be more than a few minutes."

The porter on duty, who was talking to a friend in the hall, touched his cap respectfully as the newcomer hurried past him in the direction of the main staircase.

"See that bloke, Fred?" he whispered, jerking his thumb after the retreating figure. "That's Sir George Onslow, that is. Some pore beggar's for it, you can take my word."

"Well, thank Gawd 'e ain't a-goin' to 'ack me about," returned the other. "Pack o' butchers, all the lot of 'em, if they gets 'alf a chance."

Unconscious of having been the cause of this somewhat drastic criticism of his profession, the famous surgeon mounted rapidly to the second landing, where a long, bare, distempered corridor stretched away in either direction. Choosing the one on the left, he came to a halt in front of a white door, on which the two words "House Surgeon" were neatly painted in black letters, and, without troubling to knock, turned the handle and walked in.

A broad-shouldered, cheerful-looking young man, who was sitting at the table reading a medical book, glanced up carelessly at his entrance. On seeing who the visitor was his expression changed, and with a certain air of surprise he rose quickly to his feet.

"Hullo, Sir George," he exclaimed. "We weren't expecting you this morning."

The elder man stepped forward and offered his hand.

"Sorry to interrupt your studies, Gray," he said, smiling. "This isn't an official visit. I've just looked in on a little private and personal matter."

The young house surgeon pulled forward a tattered armchair.

"Well, I'm delighted to see you, sir," he said heartily. "Won't you take a pew?"

Sir George sat down, and, leaning forward, helped himself to a cigarette from the box which his companion offered him.

"You were telling me about your plans a week or two ago," he said. "Have you come to any decision yet?"

Gray, who was standing with his back to the fireplace, nodded his head.

"Yes," he answered. "I've made up my mind to send in my resignation as soon as the secretary comes back. I can't help feeling that I'm wasting my time here. I have always meant to go in for research work, and if I'm to do any good at it it's quite time I started." He laughed a little awkwardly. "I hope it doesn't sound conceited talking like this, sir, but I really believe I've got a turn in that direction."

Sir George looked up at him with a friendly, half-quizzical twinkle in his eye.

"You needn't apologize, my boy," he said gravely. "I don't think any one would accuse you of having a swelled head." He paused. "If it doesn't sound an impertinent question, may I ask how you are situated with regard to money matters?"

"I can manage all right," replied the other. "I've got a small private income of about three hundred a year. I should have to give up the car, of course, but one can't expect luxuries if one goes in for laboratory work."

Sir George nodded his head approvingly.

"That's the proper frame of mind, anyhow," he observed. "There's no half-and-half business about science. It's a great game if you're prepared to give up everything else to it, but if you want money and comfort and reputation—well, you'd better copy my example and spend your time cutting out the entrails of over-fed millionaires." He flicked the ash off his cigarette, and, sinking back again in the chair, crossed his legs. "All the same," he added, "it just happens that I might be able to put something in your way which would make it possible for you to keep the car and hunt bugs at the same time."

Gray's boyish face lit up with sudden interest.

"By Jove, sir!" he exclaimed. "That sounds promising!"

"How would you like to go and live with old Carter as a sort of residential assistant?"

"Carter?" Gray repeated the name almost reverently. "Do you mean Professor Carter?"

"Of course I do. You don't suppose I'm referring to the man who makes the liver pills?"

"You can bet I should like it all right," was the eager reply. "Why, it's a chance for which any chap in my position would sell his soul."

The surgeon smiled again at his young companion's enthusiasm.

"Well, I think it might be arranged on less dramatic terms than that. As a matter of fact, I was talking to the old boy last night. He doesn't often show up in public nowadays, but he happened to come along to a special meeting of the Board of Health, and he and I had a long yarn together. Amongst other things he asked me if I knew a young fellow who'd make a suitable assistant. He wants someone to live in the house, and he told me that if he could find the right man he was prepared to pay a salary of four hundred a year. That, of course, would be in addition to living expenses."

"Four hundred a year!" echoed Gray in astonishment.

"Oh, he can afford it well enough. He's rolling in money, and he never spends a bob on anything except his work."

"Why, he can take his pick amongst the best-trained men in England," declared Gray. "They'd simply fall over themselves to get in with Carter, whether there's a salary attached to it or not."

"That may be the case," assented Sir George drily, "but, as it happens, very few of them possess the particular qualification on which the Professor insists. You see, he wants someone who's an expert boxer as well as being a fully qualified scientist."

Gray stared at his visitor in utter bewilderment.

"Sounds a bit comic, doesn't it?" pursued the latter tranquilly. "The fact is the old gentleman's suffering from nerves. About nine weeks ago his house on Campden Hill was broken into by burglars, and ever since then he seems to have been living in a mortal funk that the same thing would happen again."

"But hasn't he any one in the place besides himself?" demanded Gray.

"Only a couple of women who cook for him and look after the house. He had an old servant for about forty years, but I think he's pensioned him off. Of course, it really isn't very safe as things are. Carter must be over eighty, and the Red Lodge is a devilish lonely place, shut in behind a high wall amongst a lot of trees. I don't wonder he feels a bit jumpy."

"But is he quite serious about wanting an assistant?" demanded Gray. "At present it sounds as if he were in more need of a bull-dog."

Sir George laughed. "It's a genuine enough offer," he said. "He confided to me that he'd just undertaken some very important researches, and that it was absolutely necessary he should have a first-class man to help him. I thought of you at once. I said all the complimentary things I could about your work, and I added, as a sort of little extra inducement, that you'd won the inter-hospital heavyweight boxing competition for two years in succession."

Gray coloured modestly. "It was awfully good of you, Sir George," he replied.

"Not at all," was the answer. "In my opinion he'll be very lucky if he gets you. I told him I'd look you up and see how you felt about it, and that if you liked the idea I'd let him know some time to-day."

"I shall be ready to go directly I can get away from the hospital," declared Gray.

Sir George Onslow threw away the stump of his cigarette and rose to his feet.

"I don't think there will be any difficulty about that. I'll speak to the chairman personally, and if Carter wants you at once we can easily find someone to carry on until the secretary comes back," He glanced at his watch. "I must be running along now. I've got to be at the nursing home by twelve-thirty."

After expressing his gratitude once more, Gray accompanied his visitor down to the hall, where he remained standing on the steps until the car drove away. He was just turning back toward the staircase when the porter, who was engaged with the telephone, thrust his head out of the box.

"Gen'leman wants to speak to you, sir—a Mister Ashton."

Gray walked forward and picked up the receiver.

"Hullo!" he observed encouragingly.

"Hullo!" came the answer. "That you, Colin?"

"Of course it's me."

"Mark speaking—Mark Ashton. Are you engaged for lunch?"

"Not if I can get any one else to pay for it," was the candid reply.

"Well, how would you like to come along and feed with me at the Savoy Grill?"

"I've no particular objection. What's the matter? Have you come into money?"

There was a chuckle at the other end of the wire.

"Nothing like that. Just a sudden thirst for your society."

"It shall be gratified," said Gray. "What time shall I show up?"

"One o'clock. Suit you all right?"

"Excellently."

"That'll do, then. If you get there first order yourself a cocktail."

The speaker rang off, and, replacing the receiver, Gray glanced at his watch.

It was a few minutes past twelve, and, being the day on which he was off duty, there was nothing to prevent him leaving the hospital as soon as he pleased. The prospect of a two-mile walk before lunch distinctly appealed to him, so, remounting the stairs to his small bedroom at the top of the building, he proceeded to change out of his white surgeon's kit into something a little more in harmony with the best traditions of a fashionable restaurant.

At exactly five minutes to one he passed through the revolving glass door of the Savoy and entered the already crowded lounge. Before he had time to glance round, a man, who had been sitting in the farther corner, rose to his feet and came forward to meet him.

No one, not even a newspaper reporter, would have called Mark Ashton handsome. In spite of his roughly cut features, his untidy hair, his badly fitting frock coat, and his large gold-rimmed spectacles there was, however, such a genuine and friendly air about his whole appearance that anybody except a fool would have been attracted by him at once. Somehow or other he reminded one of a large, shaggy, good-tempered dog.

He came up to Gray and shook him heartily by the hand.

"This is splendid, Colin," he said. "I'm awfully glad you were able to manage it."

"So am I," returned his guest. "It would have broken my heart to refuse an invitation like this."

Mark grinned broadly, and, thrusting his arm through his companion's, piloted him across the lounge in the direction of the grill-room door.

"I've ordered a table," he announced, "so unless you'd rather wait a bit we may as well have lunch right away."

"That will suit me," said Colin cheerfully. "I breakfasted at eight, and I've just walked up from the hospital."

Following an obsequious gentleman, who apparently recognized Mark, they threaded their way through the room and took their places at a small table in the opposite corner, which looked out into the courtyard.

Mark picked up the menu and studied it with some care.

"What do you say about oysters to start with?" he suggested. "A dozen oysters each and a bottle of Chablis?"

"It's a good idea," admitted Colin. "Especially the Chablis."

"We can discuss what we'll have afterward while we're eating them," continued his host. He gave the order, and, as the waiter departed, he sat back in his chair and took a genial survey of the restaurant.

"What is the precise meaning of this debauch?" inquired Colin. "Is it your birthday or have you been backing the winner of the Cesarewitch?"

The other laughed good-naturedly. "I told you over the telephone. It's just a case of a hard-working East End doctor snatching a brief interval from his practice to enjoy the society of his most brilliant and distinguished pupil." He paused. "As a matter of fact," he added, "the whole thing was Mary's notion. I wanted to have a talk with you, and she suggested that I should take a couple of hours off and invite you to lunch."

"Mary's a great woman," said Colin with feeling. "Why didn't you bring her along with you?"

"She's stopped behind to console the patients, shall have scores of 'em hanging round the surgery when I get back." He sighed heavily.

"Well, cheer up," said Colin. "By the time we've finished lunch they'll probably be dead." He helped himself to a roll, and, breaking off a bit of the crust, proceeded to nibble it thoughtfully. "What did you want to see me about?" he inquired.

Mark paused, while two waiters, who had suddenly appeared with the oysters and the Chablis, hovered round the table, intent on their ministrations.

"It's nothing much," he replied eventually. "I was wondering if by any chance you could find me a girl."

"Find you a girl?" echoed Colin. "Why, you old Mormon, you've got Mary already."

"That's just the trouble," was the depressed answer. "Mary has to go off to Lincoln for a month to nurse her mother. After next Wednesday I shall be a grass widower."

Colin looked at him with genuine sympathy. "My poor lad!" he exclaimed. "This is indeed a blow!"

"It's worse than that," observed his companion. "It's—it's a damned knock-out. She's never been away from me for more than a day, not since we went down to Shadwell. Heaven only knows how I shall get on without her. She answers the letters, keeps the accounts, pays the bills, mixes the medicines——"

"In fact," broke in Colin, "to put it plainly, she's a darn sight more important to the business than you are." He speared a recalcitrant oyster and sprinkled it with red pepper. "I wonder you let her go," he added mischievously. "Why don't you take up the strong, silent husband stunt and refuse to allow it?"

"Oh, I can't do that," objected Mark. "You see, the old lady really is very seedy. She's going to have an operation in about a month's time, and meanwhile she's got to keep to her bed. She's simply set her heart on having Mary to come and look after her, and I couldn't be such an utterly selfish pig as to go and put any difficulties in the way."

"No, I don't suppose you could," admitted Colin. "That sort of thing requires a lot of practice."

"We've talked it over," continued Mark, "and we've decided that the best plan would be to try and find some nice, sensible girl who'd come in for the day and make herself generally useful. Of course, it isn't exactly easy to get hold of the right person. I want a really capable, honest, pleasant girl, who can type and keep accounts, and who'll take a kind of personal interest in the whole show."

"You don't want much," observed Colin drily.

"Well, I'm prepared to pay for it, and if she turned out to be any use I'd keep her on permanently. I've been meaning to do something of the sort for the last six months. Mary's been working far too hard, and I'm making such a sinful amount of money I can quite well afford a little extra help." He pushed away his empty oyster shells and beckoned to the waiter. "We'd better order some more grub, eh? Can you manage a cold grouse?"

"With ease," said Colin.

He remained silent until the man had departed, and then, picking up the Chablis, refilled his glass.

"But where do I come in?" he inquired. "You're not expecting me to produce angels out of my waistcoat pocket?"

"We thought you might be able to recommend somebody. Mary said that a young, dashing, good-looking fellow like you——"

"She was pulling your leg," protested Colin. "She knows perfectly well that I'm terrified of girls."

"How about the hospital? Haven't you a pretty, intelligent nurse who'd like a nice Christian home?"

"I've never noticed her if we have." He paused as the recollection of his conversation with Sir George Onslow suddenly flashed into his mind. "By Jove!" he added. "That reminds me. I haven't told you my great news yet. I'm chucking the hospital and going as bottle-washer to old Carter."

His companion stared at him half incredulously.

"Is this a fact?" he demanded.

"Well, it's practically settled. I've had nothing to do with it really; Onslow's worked the whole thing for me. I'd just finished talking to him when you rang up."

In a few words he described his interview with Sir George and the curious information which the latter had given him with regard to the professor's requirements.

"I can't say if I shall fit the bill," he added, laughing, "but if the old boy takes a fancy to me I don't care how many damned burglars he has. I'd tackle half a dozen a night for the sake of being his assistant."

"It's a wonderful chance," admitted Mark thoughtfully. "Carter may be a little queer, but there's no doubt that he's the greatest man at his game in the world." He looked across rather wistfully into the strong, smiling face opposite him. "You're a fortunate young devil, Colin," he added. "Nature's presented you with practically everything a man can want—brains, good looks, and the strength of a cart-horse—and now I'm hanged if you're not going to be lucky as well. I'd have given my head for an opening like this when I was your age. Just fancy being able to devote one's life to science instead of wasting it in the futile way I've done."

"You're talking through your hat," protested Colin indignantly. "If you chose you could be sitting in an armchair in Harley Street, but instead of that you and Mary live down there in Shadwell and sweat your souls out amongst the poorest of the poor. Don't you call that good work?"

"Splendid," agreed Mark. "Stuffing 'em up with coloured water and ginger pills and making fifteen hundred a year out of the poor blighters for doing it." He smiled with a cheerful good nature that was rather out of keeping with his words. "I'm not envious, Colin. I'm only too delighted to know that you've found the right opening. Two or three years' experience with Carter will be simply invaluable to you. It will put you in the very front rank of investigators, and what's more, it will give you the opportunity of carrying on his work after he's dead. You'll be a great man before you've finished. When I'm an old buffer of eighty I shall probably go around bragging that the famous Sir Colin Gray was once my junior house surgeon at Bart's."

"Always supposing," added the future celebrity, "that I'm not knocked on the head by a burglar." He rolled up a bread pill and eyed his host meditatively. "It's a rummy affair, the whole business," he continued. "I wonder if there's anything behind it? D'you think Carter's just got the wind up, or d'you think he's one of those old juggins who keeps thousands of pounds buried in the back cellar?"

Mark shrugged his shoulders. "Goodness knows," he replied. "Anyhow, he ought to be safe enough with you. If I were a self-respecting burglar with a proper regard for my appearance I should give the Red Lodge a devilish wide berth. I know that right upper-cut of yours; I've had some of it."

The appearance of the grouse at this point created a temporary diversion, and it was not until lunch was finished, and the two of them were sitting over their coffee and cigars, that Mark returned to his original subject.

"You won't forget, will you," he said, "if you run across a likely damsel. I shall be absolutely in the soup unless I get hold of somebody the next day or two."

"I'll do my best for you," Colin assured him. "I'll have a general inspection of all the nurses at the hospital to-morrow morning, and if there's a stray angel amongst them I'll send her along. I shouldn't bank on it though, not from what I remember of them."

Mark pulled out his note case and beckoned to the waiter.

"I must be off," he observed resentfully. "Which way are you going—back to the hospital?"

Colin shook his head. "This is my day out. I shall roll along to the garage and spend a nice messy afternoon tinkering at the car. There are several odd jobs that want doing, and I should like to get them cleared off before I start chasing burglars."

Mark paid the bill, and, leaving the restaurant, the two friends walked together as far as Charing Cross Underground, where they came to a halt on the bridge inside the barrier.

"Well, thanks for an excellent lunch," said Colin, shaking his host's hand. "Remember that if you ever want my advice it's always available on the same terms."

Mark grinned. "You must come down and thank Mary," he said. "It was she who suggested the Savoy. If it had been left to me I should probably have taken you to Lockhart's."

As he spoke an East End train clanked noisily out of the opposite tunnel, and with a hurried good-bye he darted away toward the steps and disappeared from view.

About twenty minutes later, with the stump of a cigar in his mouth, and feeling remarkably at peace with the world, Colin emerged from Sloane Street Station and strolled across the pavement in the direction of the barracks.

He kept his car in a small garage at the bottom of Church Street, a place which, in addition to being cheap and within easy reach of the hospital, also possessed the unusual distinction of having an honest proprietor. It was about three-quarters of a mile from the Square, but as he was in no hurry, and the weather was extraordinarily genial for an afternoon in late November, he dismissed his first intention of taking a motor bus and started off at a leisurely pace along the King's Road.

He had got as far as the corner of Radnor Street when his progress was suddenly arrested by a muffled outbreak of shouts and oaths. The next moment the door of a small public house opposite burst violently open, and from its gas-lit interior a tangled cluster of struggling men swayed out into the main thoroughfare. One of them was evidently a policeman, for his blue helmet was clearly visible in the centre of the melee.

For a second or two the whole mass reeled backward and forward, then a stick swung up into the air, and, coming down with crashing force on the back of the constable's head, stretched him out an inert mass in the gutter.

CHAPTER TWO

However underpaid it may be, the training of a house surgeon at a London hospital induces a certain readiness of action. Before any of the other passers-by had ceased to gape helplessly at this unusual spectacle Colin was halfway across the street.

Quick as he was, however, the situation had already developed. A big, burly man, clutching another by the collar, had staggered back against the wall of the pub, where, with his disengaged arm, he was endeavouring to defend himself as best he could against a rain of blows and kicks.

Striking out mercilessly right and left, Colin forced his way through the gang. He was only just in time, for exactly as he arrived a vicious kick in the ribs sent the big stranger sprawling to the pavement, his fingers still gripping the collar of his half-throttled prisoner.

The man who had laid him out—a truculent-looking scoundrel in a blue suit—was stepping in to complete his work when a smashing swing from Colin caught him full in the mouth. Reeling back from the blow, he collided violently with one of his friends, and for a second the whole attacking party were thrown into confusion.

Before they could recover the shrill note of a police whistle rang out close behind them. They all spun round instinctively, and through a gap in their ranks Colin caught sight of the slim figure of a girl stooping over the prostrate body of the constable. It was only a brief glimpse, for the next moment one of the ruffians sprang backward and lashed out at her with his belt. Dropping the whistle, she sank forward on to her knees, and with a wild, clattering rush the entire gang took to their heels.

In two strides Colin was at the girl's side. He was not easily upset, but the sight of that cowardly blow had filled him with such a sudden wave of fury that he found it difficult to control his voice as he bent down over the crouching figure.

"Are you much hurt?" he asked.

She raised her head, and a pair of beautiful but rather bewildered blue eyes looked up into his.

"No," she said. "I don't think I am. Is it all over?"

In spite of his anger Colin began to laugh.

"Yes," he added, "it's all over. They've bolted like a lot of rabbits, thanks to you."

He took her by the arm, and a trifle unsteadily, she scrambled to her feet.

"How do you feel?" he asked with some anxiety. "I was horribly afraid he'd hit you on the head."

"So he did," was the answer, "but luckily for me I've got a good deal of protection."

She lifted off the small velvet hat that she was wearing and rather tenderly patted the thick coils of dark red hair which gleamed like copper in the fading November sunlight. "The queer thing is," she added, "that it hasn't even given me a headache."

"I wish I'd known you were all right," said Colin ruefully. "I'd have gone after the brute and wrung his neck."

"You didn't do so badly as it was, mister," observed a voice at his elbow, and, turning round sharply, he found himself face to face with the burly stranger, whom he had last seen scuffling on the pavement. Except for a slight trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth the latter looked none the worse for his adventures.

"I owe something both to you and to this young lady," he continued. "If you hadn't come along just when you did I'd probably have got my head kicked in."

"You needn't thank me," protested Colin. "There's nothing I enjoy better than a good scrap."

He glanced round the late field of battle with a certain amount of amused curiosity. Three fresh and energetic-looking policemen had already appeared. One of them was grasping the arm of the now handcuffed prisoner, a second knelt beside the body of his injured comrade, while the third, with that scant ceremony which distinguishes the Metropolitan force, was thrusting back a rapidly increasing throng of interested spectators.

"What's it all about?" asked Colin.

Rummaging in his waistcoat pocket, the big man produced a dilapidated card.

"You'll see my name there," he said. "Inspector Marsden of the C.I.D." He jerked his head in the direction of the captive—a short, sandy-haired individual with a face like a rather disagreeable ferret. "You've helped us to get hold of a gentleman we've been wanting badly at the Yard for the last two months. That's 'Ginger Dick,' the leader of the toughest race-course gang in England."

"He must be fairly popular with his friends," observed Colin. "At least, they seemed quite anxious not to lose his society."

The Inspector smiled grimly. "You don't know 'em, sir. You can take it from me that all they're worrying about is whether he's going to split on 'em. There isn't a man in that crowd who wouldn't sell his own mother." He moved over to the second constable, who was still busy with his unconscious mate. "What's the damage?" he asked. "Anything serious?"

Colin stepped across after him. "You'd better let me have a look," he said. "I'm a doctor."

The two men at once made way, and, kneeling down in the gutter, he rapidly examined his patient's condition.

"You must get him to hospital as quick as you can," he said, looking up at the Inspector. "He's had a pretty bad crack on the head, and the sooner he's under treatment the better." He rose to his feet and brushed off the dust from his trousers. "Take him along to St. Christopher's," he added. "Tell them that Doctor Gray sent you, and that it's a case which requires immediate attention."

The Inspector nodded, and, having despatched one of his assistants to fetch an ambulance, turned back and addressed himself to the girl.

"You'll pardon me for not having thanked you before, miss," he said. "I never saw anything pluckier in my life than the way you chipped in and blew that whistle. There's not one young lady in a thousand who'd have had the nerve to do it."

The recipient of his praises coloured delicately.

"If you don't mind," he continued, "I'll make a note of your name and address. We might be glad of your evidence, and I know the commissioner would like to write you a little letter to send you his official thanks."

"Oh, he mustn't trouble to do that," objected the girl hastily. "I'm sure he's frightfully busy, and, after all, it's quite easy just to blow a whistle."

Colin laughed. "You can't get out of it," he said. "Still, if you'll tell the Inspector your name and where you live I don't suppose he'll bother you to give evidence unless it's absolutely necessary."

"You can count on that, miss," remarked the other reassuringly.

"Well, I live just round the corner at No. 46 Jubilee Place," said the girl, "and my name's Seymour—Miss Nancy Seymour."

The Inspector committed this information to an official-looking pocketbook, and then held out his hand to Colin.

"I shan't forget that you've saved my life, doctor," he said. "I hope that next time you're up in our direction you'll look in and pay us a visit." He paused. "And remember," he added, "that if there's ever any little way in which we can be of use to you, you've only got to let us know. We like to pay our debts at the Yard when we get the opportunity."

"I shall remember," said Colin, smiling. "It might come in handy one of these days."

He stepped forward as a movement amongst the onlookers heralded the approach of the ambulance, and, after assisting to lift the injured constable inside, came back to where the girl was standing.

"Can I see you as far as your house?" he asked. "I don't suppose any of those blackguards are still hanging about, but there's no point in running risks."

"Thank you," she said simply. "I should be very grateful if you would."

Under a fire of curious glances they pushed their way through the crowd and started off along the pavement in the direction of Jubilee Place.

Colin was the first to break the silence.

"Where did you spring from?" he asked. "I never saw you until you blew the whistle."

"I had just come out to buy a stamp," replied his companion. "I was walking peacefully along to King's Road when I suddenly found myself right in the middle of it."

"Well, you've got some pluck," said Colin admiringly. "That Inspector was quite right in what he said. Most girls would have given a shriek and flopped down in the gutter."

She coloured again in the same attractive fashion as before.

"It wasn't a question of pluck," she objected. "I acted entirely from impulse. If I had had time to think I should probably have done what you say." She stopped short with a little gesture of annoyance. "Oh dear, how stupid I am! I've quite forgotten to buy the stamp after all."

"It doesn't matter," said Colin. "I've got one in my pocket I can let you have."

They turned up a narrow street with some white buildings on one side of it, and at the door of the second house the girl halted.

"This is where I live," she said. "It was awfully kind of you to walk back with me."

"Not a bit," said Colin. "I'm very fond of a little gentle exercise." He pulled out a note-case and began to search through its various compartments. "If you'll wait half a minute," he added, "I'll see if I can find you that stamp."

She stood watching him with a certain look of indecision in her face.

"I don't know if you'd care to come in," she said rather hesitatingly. "I have only got a small studio, but I can at least offer you a cup of tea."

Colin unearthed the stamp and presented it to her in triumph.

"If you're quite certain I shan't be a nuisance," he said, "I should like it immensely. Fighting in the street always gives me a thirst."

Miss Nancy Seymour's blue eyes twinkled merrily, and, inserting a Yale key into the lock, she led the way up a small winding staircase to a door on the first landing.

"You mustn't mind if it's not very tidy," she remarked apologetically. "I have been typing all the morning, and I've not had time to put things straight."

She opened the door, and, following her inside, Colin found himself in an oddly shaped but rather attractive apartment, the principal feature of which was a big glass skylight, shaped like a coach-house roof.

The furniture was scanty, consisting chiefly of a low, comfortable-looking couch, a couple of old Windsor armchairs, and a stout deal table which at some remote period had evidently been stained brown. On the latter stood a typewriter flanked by a litter of loose sheets and several piles of badly written manuscript.

The farther corner of the room was curtained off, as though to serve the purpose of a kitchen or bedroom.

With a wave of her hand Nancy indicated the couch. "Try my patent sofa," she said hospitably. "I'll tidy up while the kettle's boiling."

"Don't do it for me," protested Colin. "I like to see a room a little topsy-turvy. You can't think how refreshing it seems after the suffocating neatness of a hospital."

"I'll put away these horrible manuscripts at all events," returned his hostess. "I've been working at them ever since nine o'clock. The mere sight of them makes me feel ill."

"What are they?" inquired Colin.

She made as near an approach to a grimace as nature would allow.

"Stories. And such bad ones! I think that all the worst authors in the world must live in Chelsea."

"It was rather unkind to type them out," observed Colin. "Somebody will probably have to read them now."

Nancy laughed. "Unfortunately," she said, "it happens to be my profession."

She covered up the typewriter and collected all the papers into an indiscriminate bundle.

"I sha'n't be long," she added, moving away toward the curtain. "Make yourself comfortable, and please smoke if you want to."

Accepting both these invitations, Colin lighted a cigarette and took up a restful position on the couch. He felt curiously at home, considering the novelty of his surroundings, but the whole affair had been so unusual that somehow or other this impromptu tea party seemed to constitute a natural and appropriate climax.

That it would also turn out to be an extremely entertaining one he had no manner of doubt. Whoever Miss Nancy Seymour might be, she was certainly the most attractive girl he had ever met in his life. Her looks alone were sufficient to arouse anybody's enthusiasm. With her vividly coloured hair and almost forget-me-not blue eyes she possessed that sort of inspiriting beauty which Rossetti in his healthier and happier moments would have revelled in painting.

But, delightful as Colin found her appearance, there was something still more fascinating to him in the unaffected simplicity and friendliness of her manner. What he had said to Mark about his knowledge of women was perfectly true. As a medical student he had worked exceptionally hard, and this fact, combined with his devotion to football and boxing, had left him little time to cultivate any of those semi-amorous friendships which seem to be the principal hobby of so many budding physicians. It was, in fact, the first time that he had ever been perfectly at ease in a girl's society, and the sensation was so pleasing that he felt no objection to its indefinite extension.

He could hear Nancy moving about behind the curtain, the pop of a gas ring and the chink of cups giving some clue to the nature of her activities. Six or seven minutes must have elapsed, however, before she made her reappearance, this time carrying a tray with all the necessary equipment for tea. She had discarded her hat and coat, and in her simple indoor costume Colin thought that she looked prettier than ever.

"Don't get up," she said, as he started to rise to his feet. "I'll bring over that other little table and then we can help ourselves."

Suiting the action to the word, she deposited the tray on the end of the sofa, and pulled up a sort of rickety three-legged stool which looked like the final effort of some disillusioned amateur carpenter.

"It's all rather primitive," she continued, "but you must pretend not to notice. You see, I've had to furnish the place myself, and I've never yet had enough money to do it properly."

Colin looked round with a contented eye. "I don't see what more you want," he observed, "not unless you're naturally luxurious."

"I expect that must be it," she replied, pouring out the tea. "Anyhow, I know that directly I can afford it I mean to buy some new curtains and also a nice thick velvety carpet from Harrod's." She smiled. "That won't be for some time though—not unless there's a boom in bad stories."

"If it isn't an impertinent question," said Colin, "how long have you been in Chelsea?"

"About eighteen months," she answered, handing him his cup. "I had always lived in the country before then, but there were reasons why I had to start work of some sort, and typing was the only useful thing I happened to know. Somebody told me that Chelsea was full of authors, so I came here, and here I've been ever since."

Colin helped himself to a sugared biscuit. "I hope you charge them a lot," he said, "and I hope they pay regularly."

"It might be worse," she replied. "As it happens, I've got enough money of my own to pay the rent of the studio, and what I make out of my typing just keeps me going in clothes and food and cigarettes." She paused to refill the teapot. "It's just the feeling that I'm wasting my time so," she continued, "that annoys me. If I were working at something really useful I should be quite happy, but this stuff"—she made a distasteful gesture toward the table—"well, I can't think how anybody can possibly write it, let alone read it."

Colin suddenly slapped his leg with a bang which made the china rattle.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Why, of course, you're the very girl!"

He laid down his cup and gazed at her in a kind of triumphant satisfaction.

Nancy returned his inspection with a perplexed smile. "I daresay I am," she admitted. "It's rather hard to tell at present, isn't it?"

Colin laughed. "I'm not mad," he explained. "If you meant what you said just now, if you're really looking out for something that's worth doing, I can put you on to a job straight away."

There was a moment's silence.

"It's very nice of you," said Nancy. "The only question is that I should probably be quite unqualified for it."

"On the contrary," retorted Colin, "you're the exact person that I've been commissioned to find."

"It must be a queer sort of job then," remarked Nancy, still smiling. "All you know about me at present is that I can type, make tea, and blow a police whistle."

"Well, there you are," observed her guest. "It's just that all-round sort of ability that Mark wants."

He sat back against the wall, and, without any further delay, proceeded to enter into a full description of the distressing problem which overhung the Shadwell ménage.

"If you'll chip in and fill the gap," he continued, "you'll be doing a real Christian act. Mark jeers at his own work, but, as a matter of cold fact, he and Mary have buried themselves down in that beastly slum out of sheer good nature. They're the sort of people you don't meet twice in a lifetime. Mark's a brick, and Mary's just the sweetest and most unselfish woman that ever trod this earth."

"They sound perfect dears," said Nancy. "I should love to know them whether I get the job or not."

"Get the job!" repeated Colin. "Why, good Lord, they'll simply be all over you as soon as you show yourself."

Nancy's blue eyes gleamed merrily. "You seem to forget, Doctor Gray," she said, "everybody isn't quite so rapid and trustful as you are. They might, for instance, like to know something about me first."

"Well, you can tell 'em," replied Colin. "You haven't been in prison, have you, or anything of that sort? Not that Mark would mind a bit if you had."

"What a nice, obliging man!" was the answer. "No, I haven't been in prison, and I don't think I've ever done anything to deserve it. All the same, if any one offered me an engagement they would have to take me absolutely on trust. You see, I have never earned a salary before, so I've got no testimonials."

"Yes, you have," objected Colin. "You've got mine and the policeman's. That ought to be enough for any reasonable employer." He glanced at his watch. "Look here," he added eagerly, "if you're doing nothing in particular, why shouldn't we go down there straight away? Mark usually takes half an hour off for tea about four o'clock, so we should just catch them at the right time."

"How does one get to Shadwell?" asked Nancy. "I don't even know where it is."

Colin jumped up briskly. "I'll drive you down," he said. "I've got a little car in Church Street. I was just going along there to do some repairs."

Nancy made a movement of protest. "Oh, but, please——" she said. "I don't want to take up all your afternoon—not if you're busy."

"That's all right," observed Colin. "You shove on your hat and coat. I shall have plenty of time to tinker at the car when we get back."

With an air of resigned amusement Nancy rose to her feet.

"I am trusting entirely to you, Doctor Gray," she said. "If your friends throw me out ignominiously I sha'n't be the least surprised."

She collected the tea things, and, crossing the room to the farther corner, disappeared again behind the curtain.

After a surprisingly short interval she returned, ready dressed for the journey.

"You look ripping," said Colin, eyeing her with frank approval. "I'm longing to see old Mark's face when he hears you're his new secretary."

"Well, it's more than I am," remarked Nancy.

She paused for a second or two to make a final inspection of herself in the looking glass, and then, following her guest out on to the landing, closed and locked the door behind her.

They descended the staircase and were just emerging into the street when a big white Daimler swung into view round the corner of the King's Road.

Nancy uttered a little exclamation which sounded like one of annoyance, but before she could speak the driver turned in toward the pavement and drew up alongside of them. He proved to be a tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged man, with rather dissipated blue eyes.

"Hullo, young lady," he said, raising his hat, "where are you off to? I was coming along to take you out for a drive."

Nancy acknowledged his greeting without any apparent enthusiasm.

"It was very kind of you," she replied, "but I am afraid I can't manage it to-day. I have promised to go out to tea with some friends of Doctor Gray's." She paused for a moment, and then glanced hesitatingly from one to the other of them. "Let me introduce you," she added. "Doctor Gray—Major Fenton."

The two men nodded to each other.

"It will do you much more good to come for a spin," persisted the new arrival. "Besides, I understood that we more or less fixed it up last Thursday."

"Did we?" said Nancy coolly. "I don't remember actually mentioning the day."

"Well, I understood so anyhow," returned the other. He leaned across and opened the door. "Come along," he added persuasively. "I am sure Doctor Gray will excuse you."

"I have no doubt he would," said Nancy, "but, as it happens, I particularly want to meet his friends." She held out a small gloved hand, which the other accepted with obvious reluctance. "You must really excuse me, Major Fenton," she continued. "I can't possibly manage to come to-day though I am very much obliged to you for offering to take me."

Except for an ugly glint in his blue eyes, the owner of the car managed to control his emotions.

"Oh, very well," he said, with a rather forced laugh, "if you're really booked up, of course that settles it. We must make it another day instead, eh? How about to-morrow?"

"To-morrow would be all right," said Nancy, "as far as I know at present."

"I'll call for you at the same time, then—say three o'clock, or perhaps we'd better make it a quarter past." He lifted his hat again, and, after bestowing a curt nod on Colin, leaned over and closed the door of the car. The next moment he was moving away rapidly up the street.

Nancy gave a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad you were with me," she said, as they started off in the opposite direction. "If I had been alone I couldn't very well have got out of it."

Colin looked at her in surprise. "Why on earth should you go if you don't want to?" he asked. "Is that truculent warrior your guardian or what?"

Nancy shook her head. "I don't know anything about him," she answered, "except that he happens to be an old friend of my father's." She paused for an instant as they turned the corner into King's Road. "You see, I am rather alone in the world," she continued. "My father and mother both died when I was a baby, and as Major Fenton took the trouble to come and hunt me out about two months ago I didn't like to seem ungrateful."

There was a touch of wistfulness in her voice which went straight to Colin's heart.

"Of course, that's different," he said gently. "It's rotten bad luck to be left all by oneself. Haven't you any relations or people of that sort?"

"None that I ever heard of," was the answer. "My father and mother were living in a little village in Cornwall, and one day they were caught in a storm out sailing, and they were both drowned. No one seemed to know anything about them at all. A lawyer at Helston, a very kind man called Mr. Penwarren, advertised in the papers and made inquiries everywhere. They all led to nothing, however, and it ended with my going to live with an old farmer and his wife who had offered to take care of me. There was a little money—something like nine hundred pounds—which Mr. Penwarren had invested for me, and that gave me the chance of coming to London and setting up as a typist." She stopped short, and glanced at Colin with a sudden trace of embarrassment. "I don't know why I am telling you all this," she added. "I'm afraid I must be boring you horribly."

Colin shook his head. "I never felt more interested in my life. I thought that things like that only happened in books and plays."

"I wish they did," said Nancy. "I simply hate not knowing who I am. It makes one feel like a lost dog."

"But how about our genial friend in the car?" inquired Colin. "If he was a pal of your father's he must surely have been able to give you some information."

"That's just what he can't do," said Nancy. "He met my father years ago down at Forth Leven, where they used to go out fishing together. He went abroad with his regiment after that, and it was only when he came home this spring and happened to be in the same neighbourhood that he found out about the accident. He took the trouble to go over to Helston and see the lawyer, Mr. Penwarren, who gave him my address. I can't imagine why he should have bothered about me at all, but for some extraordinary reason he seems to have thought it was his duty. Anyhow, he has certainly gone out of his way to try and be kind to me, and although I don't like him I naturally feel a certain amount of gratitude. He must be rather a nice man really or he wouldn't have behaved as he has."

"I daresay you're right," said Colin doubtfully. "I have been told that the most objectionable people often have hearts of gold."

He piloted her round the corner of Church Street and led the way into a small garage, where a miscellaneous collection of cars were ranged along the walls.

"This is mine," he remarked, coming to a halt in front of a rather battered four-seater. "She's not a beauty to look at, but she can go like the devil."

Before Nancy could offer any comment a young man in dirty overalls wriggled out from beneath a neighbouring limousine.

Colin greeted him with a friendly nod.

"I am going to take her out after all, Davis," he said. "I shall be back some time this evening, and if you're here we can run over her together."

Mr. Davis wiped his hands upon a piece of cotton waste and glanced appreciatively at Nancy. "Very good, sir," he replied; "but, if you'll excuse my saying so, I shouldn't drive too fast—not if you've got a lady with you. The steering gear's none too sound."

Colin laughed. "You needn't pay any attention to Davis," he observed to Nancy. "Like all people who have to give credit, he's a hopeless pessimist."

He opened the door for her, and, climbing up alongside into the driving seat, switched on the spark and the lamps.

With a slight shrug of his shoulders, as though to disclaim further responsibility, Mr. Davis bent down over the starting-handle. After several ineffectual jerks the engine suddenly began running, and the next moment Colin was backing his way out through the open doorway.

Sitting beside him, with her chin buried comfortably inside her collar, Nancy made no attempt at conversation. From the hint dropped by Mr. Davis she concluded that Colin was the sort of driver whom it was safer not to disturb with unnecessary chatter, an opinion which had been fully confirmed some time before they arrived at Sloane Square.

He drove, indeed, at a pace which would have proved highly distressing to any one of a timid disposition. Fortunately for Nancy, however, her nerves were in excellent order, and after the first half mile had been safely negotiated she began to find that the sensation of missing buses by a quarter of an inch was not without a peculiar and exhilarating charm.

Apart from that, the actual journey through what to her was a totally unknown quarter of London was in itself a sufficiently stimulating experience. The crowds in the City, the flaring coster barrows in St. George's Road, and the gradually increasing squalor and gloom as they drew nearer to their destination, all provided her with an unfailing source of interest.

A little way down Shadwell High Street, at the corner of a side lane, Colin came to a halt in front of an uninviting-looking public house, alongside which was a closed gate leading apparently into a yard.

"This is where I generally leave the car," he announced. "Mark's place is only a few yards farther on."

As he spoke the door of the pub opened, and a stout gentleman in trousers, carpet slippers, and a rather dirty shirt loomed up in the opening.

"'Ullo, Mister Gray," he observed, in a kind of hoarse wheeze. "Quite a stranger, ain't yer?"

He spat genially into the gutter and, stepping forward, offered his hand to Colin.

"Brought a bit o' comp'ny with yer this time, I see," he added.

"That's right," said Colin. "Let me introduce you to each other. Mr. Higgins—Miss Seymour."

The fat man wiped his hand on the back of his trousers and transferred it to Nancy.

"Pleased to meet yer, miss," he remarked. "Any friend o' Mister Gray's a friend o' mine."